Forgotten Melodies
by WeirdEmmaline
Summary: A fresh take on the classic tale. Updates Wednesdays and Saturdays. Rated for violence.
1. Prologue

**AN: This is a story that I am putting out on kindle and hardcover in May. I will be uploading one chapter per week here until it's up, and will be offering it for free here (until and unless I manage to snag a big publishing contract). The full story will likely not be up until mid-August, whereas the full story will be available for purchase starting in May. There's my marketing ploy. **

It was a look he knew all too well. All at once, the blonde that stood before him was his mother, was the Shah's wife, was that prostitute in Wales…

A strangled, animalistic howl tore itself from his ribcage, and that look— part pity, part hatred— melted into one of pure terror. She lifted her hands to cover her eyes, but he wouldn't allow it.

His slender, bony fingers were like ice against the skin of her wrists. She let out a soft gasp as she fought against his grip, but he was much too strong.

"Gaze upon my accursed ugliness," he croaked. His voice was dry and cracked, a mere shadow of the glorious thunder it had once been. "Gaze upon this horror that has loved you."

As she struggled against his grip, the blonde who had dared to unmask him changed before his eyes to the one person he never wanted to see again.

"Christine!" he gasped, letting her go quite suddenly. He looked down at his hands in horror as the girl fell to the floor in a heap, sobbing and terrified. _But it can't be_, he thought.

"Why did you come back?" he demanded with a sneer. "Why must you torment your Erik so?"

"Who— I do not know what you're talking about, monsieur," replied the blonde, her voice trembling.

For the first time in years, the man laughed. For one brief, shining moment it was as though he was young again. His eyes sparkled with a strange, calculated rage that the blonde had never seen before.

"Do not think that you can play me for a fool, Christine." With every word his voice grew stronger.

"My name is not Christine!" the blonde insisted. "My name is Joanna!"

"He only wanted to love you," the man continued as he bent over and grabbed her roughly by the upper arm. Yanking her to her feet, he leaned in close to her so that his face was all she could see.

Too terrified to look away, she stared forward in horror as his amber eyes flashed with pain. "Why did you do it, Christine? _Why_?"

The blonde struggled to pull away from him, but his grip was like a vice. "I do not know who Christine is, monsieur! Please, just let me go!"

"All Erik ever wanted was to love you!" His words were like the yowling of an injured cat, and they echoed through the darkness. "You won't flee from him this time."

"Please just let me—" Her final words caught at the back of her throat as the man suddenly released her arm and, with speed she wouldn't have thought possible from one so skeletal, threw a noose made of catgut over her head.


	2. Part 1: The Boy With No Name

Part One - The Boy With No Name

Chapter One

London, 1842

On a gloomy autumn evening enshrouded in fog and sleet, a baby boy came screaming into the world. He was born to a prostitute named Elissa in a tiny, one-windowed flat after nearly thirty hours of labor.

In secret she had carried him and in shame she had bore him to this world with the sole intent of ending his life, however once he was there in her arms, Elissa found she was in love.

In the dim light cast by a lone candle, she could not see her child. Although her child felt bony and unusually cold, she spent that first night bonding with him.

Those precious few hours would prove to be the only love the boy would feel throughout his childhood, for come morning, when her sister returned she discovered that the baby boy that had suckled at her breast and slept so peacefully in the crook of her arm was a monster.

There was no nose upon his face; a great gaping hole took the place of this most basic feature. His skin was gray and stretched tight across his skull. Though his body carried some of the fat typical of a newborn, he was far thinner than any baby she'd ever seen. With a terrified shriek, she shoved the child away, leaving it on the thin mat that served as her bed.

The small, deformed baby didn't stir, didn't seem to have noticed that the woman who had brought him into the world in pain and blood had practically _thrown_ him across the room. She nudged him further from her body with a long, slender, bruise-covered leg.

_No_, she decided_, he is not the baby that I fell in love with. My baby's gone to heaven and I've been cursed with this_ thing_ in his stead._

She contemplated carrying out the plan she had formed when she'd first realized she was with child, but some small part of her was still God-fearing. Small as that part was, it spoke the loudest of all. She knew God could forgive her the sin of selling herself to strangers, she also knew that murder was unforgivable, even if it would be the murder of a demon.

_A trial_, she thought_. This child is a trial put upon me by God. I shall do my duty and try to be mother to this beast. _Even as she thought it she looked down at the child and cringed. Sleeping, he nearly looked dead. The longer she stared at him, the more she realized that he looked like a corpse. A living, breathing corpse.

A horrible wail ripped itself from the babe's throat and the woman tasted bile as it worked its way up her throat. The very idea of allowing it to suckle at her breast once more made her long for even the most violent of her customers to drop by unexpectedly.

It screamed and cried, reaching its tiny, grasping hands with unnaturally long, thin fingers for the woman who had held and coddled him through his first night of life. Where was that comfort now? _Gone, long gone, _she thought_, I can't… I won't allow this monster to suckle at my breast!_

But the strangled cries coming from the small creature tugged at her heart. Tears welled in her eyes as she imagined the son she'd been so sure of, the _normal_ son she'd held in the dark, crying in starvation. After a long, terrible fight with herself, she reached out and picked the baby up with shaking hands.

In her short life, Elissa had met countless men with voracious appetites, sexual or otherwise, but never to the extent of the babe that clung to her breast. After just a week of attempting to care for her monster child, she was feeling like she was being eaten alive. Her savings were dwindling and her gentleman callers had to be turned away as quickly as they arrived. She couldn't allow them to know of the demon that had come from her. She couldn't subject them to its wailing.

And it was _constantly_ wailing. If she held it, it wailed. If she set it on the softest part of her mat, it wailed. It wailed while feeding and it wailed when she changed its linens. The only time it didn't wail was when it lapsed into sleep so deep she'd mistaken it for dead more than once.

Even though she was exhausted and the brief, silent moments when the baby slept were few and far between, she found she had grave misgivings about sleeping so near to what could very well be a dead body. It was only as an afterthought that these misgivings extended to sleeping so near to her own dead child.

Her life went on this way for weeks before she had to begin accepting visitors again. And so she began hiding the baby in the cupboard, wrapped in every non-essential bit of cloth she had at her disposal. Despite the instincts to protect and nurture her baby that clawed at the back of her mind, she found herself wishing that it would just suffocate while she entertained. She was growing tired of having to pretend the men were great lovers in order to drown out the sound of the cursed creature.

She was always disappointed— quite vocally disappointed— when she'd collect the child from the cupboard after she was done earning her keep for the day and would find that it still lived.

"You're not even worthy of a name, you know," she'd tell it sometimes when she'd finally relent and allow it to suckle. It was rare that she'd speak to it. She complained directly at God when she vocalized her displeasure at her situation. "Barely even an it. What atrocities have I committed to deserve such a malformed child? What happened to the boy I knew briefly? What did you do to my son, you hideous monster?"

Neither God nor the baby ever offered an answer beyond the pained wail of a baby lacking the simplest of human comforts.


	3. Chapter 2: London, 1846

**AN: OK so I'm lame and take forever to decide on things. But I thought about it and if I released one chapter per week I'd be updating this thing for the rest of the year. Given that the kindle and hardcover editions come out in just 24 more days from the time of this update (4/25/15), I think I can safely add an extra update per week. So this story will update on Wednesdays and Saturdays. **

**If you do not wish to wait until the final update is up sometime later this summer, fear not! Forgotten Melodies will be out on the kindle and in hardcover on 5/20/15, with further details to be announced soon. **

It was two months shy of the boy's fourth birthday that his mother dragged him from the safety of the flat where he'd been born for only the third time in his life. A ragged burlap sack was pulled over his head, covering the most noticeable and terrible features of his deformity. The child had grown up knowing nothing else, only having been allowed to remove the sack from his head when eating.

Not a day had passed in his short life that his mother hadn't made it abundantly clear that he was an unwanted trial put upon her to make her a better person. Even if that was what she truly believed, it wasn't enough to convince her to put forth any effort past the bare minimum to keep the child from dropping dead. It was only by accident that the child had begun to learn to speak, and it had happened more than a year after most children began experimenting with mimicking what they heard. The delay, rather than serving as a testament to her failures as a mother, was proof to her that the boy was stupid as well as hideous.

The boy walked in silence with his mother, who reached out to shove him forward from time to time but otherwise wouldn't touch him or even deign to speak to him. Knowing that it was better to please her, the boy tried his hardest to keep up with his mother. Though he was quite tall for a four year old, his mother could walk far faster and was far more coordinated. He stumbled along beside her as best he could, though, until they approached a small encampment on the outskirts of the city.

Unlike the people they had passed on the street, who were well-dressed and pleasantly scented, the people in the encampment were caked in a layer of dirt that rivaled the dirt coating the small boy. Seeing this, the woman hesitated. _Can I really go through with this?_ She wondered as she eyeballed the dingy, formerly white tarps that made up the tents and covered their wagons. _Is this really the best option I have?_

The boy who stood beside her was enraptured by the sights and sounds. Though the burlap sack covered most of his face, a look of pure wonder was plainly visible to the woman. As they approached the largest tent near the center of the encampment, she wondered idly how long he would be able to hold on to that sense of wonder.

Just outside of the tent, she stopped and turned to face the boy. He looked up at her expectantly, his amber eyes wide and filled with questions he had no way to voice. The most pressing of those being _where are we?_

"You will wait for me here," she said. "You will speak to no one and you will not move. Do you understand?"

The boy nodded furiously and stood a little straighter. His eagerness to please even now brought tears to her eyes. She turned away from him quickly and refrained from wiping her eyes until she had entered the tent.

It was decorated lavishly in gold and precious gemstones. There wasn't a space that met her eye without at least one sparkling trinket in view.

"They tell me you have a child you wish to sell," said a man with a thick accent she couldn't quite identify. The carnies and freaks of the traveling shows that passed through London all seemed to have the same strange accent, but his was the strongest she had ever heard.

The man parted curtains made of fine blue and gold silk and entered the main of the tent. He stood head and shoulders taller than Elissa and his skin was several shades darker than her milky white. The space between his shoulders was nearly twice as wide as the space between her own, and unlike all the other people she'd encountered on those grounds he was impeccably groomed. There was not a speck of dirt on him. Even the dirt he kicked up from the ground with each step seemed to land everywhere but upon his skin.

"I— I do," she said, stumbling over her words as she studied the man. His eyes were an intense shade of amber, similar to the boy's.

"And why exactly should I be interested in purchasing your brat?" the man asked, crossing his arms across his chest. The rich purple fabric of his shirt seemed to fold over effortlessly, and she was certain that when he moved once more there wouldn't be a single wrinkle to be found. "You have seen the squalor of my people. What have I to share with your child?"

"He is no ordinary child," Elissa said quickly. "Please, you need only see him to understand."

"I trust you've brought him with you, then?"

She nodded and glanced back at the entrance to the tent. "If you will excuse me, I will be but a moment."

A look of amusement reached his eyes as he gestured for her to do what she needed to do, and she turned on her heel and hurried back out of the tent. The boy was standing precisely where she left him. He looked at her expectantly as she approached.

"Come with me," she said, taking one of his small hands in her own. The boy flinched, bristling at her touch. "Now," she added coldly as she pulled him along. He tripped over his own feet as she dragged him into the tent, only righting himself as she pushed him out in front of the man she'd been speaking with.

"_This_ is the child you wish to sell?" he asked, the look of amusement melting from his face as quickly as it had appeared. "This is not worth the food it would take to keep it alive!"

"Remove the bag from his head and tell me that he is not worth your money."

The man looked at her, confused by her words. For a long moment, all three people in the main of the tent were silent and still. As the man leaned down and reached for the bag that covered the boy's face however, the boy let out a strange, animalistic howl that was unlike any noise Elissa had heard him make since his infancy.

The man jumped back, eyes wide, the hand he hadn't extended to remove the bag from the boy's head now resting on the hilt of a heavily ornamented blade that was sheathed at his waist. The boy hadn't moved, and the sound he'd made stopped the second that the man's hand was safely away from the bag that covered his face.

"I'm— I'm sorry, I've never seen him do that before," Elissa said. "He hasn't made that sound since he was but a babe—"

"I have no interest in a howling child."

"Sir, please—"

"There is no use here for him."

"Sir—"

"Madame, I must ask you to leave and take your spawn with you." The man withdrew his blade and pointed it at her. "I will not entertain this attempt at thievery—"

"Thievery?" Elissa shrieked, her eyes wide and filled with a mix of fear and anger. "A child reacts unexpectedly and your first suspicion is thievery?" She turned her attention to the child. "Come. Now."

The boy did as he was commanded and turned to face his mother, inching closer to her until he was almost on top of her feet. She held her hand out expectantly to him. "Uncover yourself." The boy looked up at her, his eyes wide and fearful. He made no move to remove the sack from his head, however. Elissa raised her other hand and slapped him. The boy stumbled and fell to the ground, but did not cry out or reach up to comfort his cheek. Instead, he continued to stare at his mother, silently pleading with her to not make him remove the dingy mask.

"Uncover yourself," she repeated. "Do not presume that you can continue to waste my time or his." She gestured to the man who still had his blade pointed to her. "Remove the sack from your head now or you shall wish I never allowed you life!"

The boy's lower lip quivered and his hands trembled as he reached up and took the rough, itchy fabric in his fists. One more pleading look to his mother and he did as he was told. The air inside the tent was cool and dry against the overheated, sweaty sin of the boy's face.

His mother looked down at him and made no effort to hide her disgust. "This child is not worth your time or money?" she asked defiantly as she took him by the arm and turned him round to face the man. The man's blade fell to the ground with a clatter as his eyes beheld the corpse-like features of the toddler.

"What sorcery is this?" the man demanded. "That is no child!"

"This child is borne of my body," Elissa said. "A monster I have been saddled with to answer for my sins. I cannot afford to keep it. But in a traveling show such as yours, think of the money it could bring! Come and see the living corpse! The demon chid of London!" Her words were thick with the venom of a thousand told-you-so's and her gaze upon the man who now seemed terrified of the child that clung nervously to her skirts bore the nearly four years of anger and frustration through which she had endured the child's existence.

"I… Of course, I can offer you a fine sum for the child," the man said after a long, awkward silence. His eyes never once left the boy's face as he backed up until he bumped into an ornate desk made of dark wood. He had to fish around one of the drawers for many minutes before locating a small purse filled with coins. For a few moments, he held the purse in his palm, weighing it against the visions of silver and gold that danced in his head at the sight of one so delightfully deformed. "But how do I know he will not fall over dead from starvation after you take your leave?"

"It's been thin as a corpse since it was born," Elissa explained, nudging the boy forward so the man could get a better look. "It doesn't sleep much, but has an appetite the likes of which I've never seen. I'm certain it will not die of starvation in your care, unless you actively plan on starving it."

For the first time since the child's face was uncovered, the man looked back to the woman who stood before him. He thought about it for a few moments longer before tossing the purse over to her. "I think you'll find that to be quite enough money to pay for him," he said as she opened it and dumped a few coins into her hand.

She nodded and quickly hid the purse down her bodice, where it rested beneath her breast.

"I shall take my leave then," she said, meeting the man's eyes one last time. "I trust I shall not see you again."

"Should you find yourself interested in the welfare of your child, you'll find tickets to our humble show quite affordable—"

"That will not be necessary, thank you," Elissa said. She looked down at the small child, who was looking at her over his shoulder and was unable to contain her look of disgust. "I shall be glad to be rid of this cursed beast. Good day, sir."

She lowered herself ever so slightly, pulling her skirt out in a caricature of the curtseys that noblewomen bid noblemen upon taking their leave. The man bid her a low bow as she hurried out of the tent without so much as a single glance back.

The boy, upon the exit of his mother, turned to give chase. He made it to the entrance of the tent before the man caught him roughly by the upper arm and dragged him back. "Oh no, my pet. I think you'll find there's nothing for you out there. You belong to me now."

The boy gave a confused grunt as he struggled against the man's grasp, but his short limbs and limited strength was no match for the man who held him.

"Mama," he whined, reaching out for the opening he'd watched his mother disappear through. The man laughed.

"So you are capable of speech! Delightful! A living, speaking corpse for my collection. You will be a star, child; my most prized possession."

The boy couldn't understand a word the man said, but somehow he knew that nothing good was coming for him. He wished desperately for his tattered sack to cover his face.


	4. Chapter 3: Greece, 1858

**AN: I try to keep myself from doing too many author's notes, particularly on multi-chapter fics, but this one's important. Please, if you happen to notice a typo or a sentence that looks funky but you can't place it, let me know either in a review or a PM. Thanks!**

**ALSO suppose I should alert y'all, there is some implied grossness toward the end of this chapter, so be aware.**

The years that brought the boy into his adolescence were harsh and unforgiving. He'd held out hope that his mother might return for him right up until the caravan moved on to Belgium in the summer of his tenth year. It was only then that he accepted that his mother truly had left him behind. Now sixteen, he hated her for leaving him behind, for _selling_ him for what he could only imagine was a truly meager sum. _Was I truly worth so little to you, _he wondered.

Firouz, the man his mother had left him with, had been unkind from the start. Never a kind touch, never a soft word. The boy knew Firouz as a monster who snarled at him in languages he couldn't understand for doing things he never could've dreamed were wrong.

As he grew, the only part that changed was the boy's understanding of language. Now he could understand most spoken English, French, Farsi, and even Dutch to an extent. His tongue still stumbled over many words, but when he wanted to be particularly defiant he could string together a coherent sentence. It wasn't often that he was willfully defiant, however. The beatings weren't worth it.

It was smarter for him to play dumb and pretend that he couldn't understand the majority of what was said to him. Firouz was less violent when he thought the boy wasn't understanding him. That didn't mean that there was ever a time without pain for the boy, however.

Once London was but a memory, the boy was locked in a cage for the entirety of the journey across the English channel to Belgium, and most of the way to where they finally set up camp. Nobody told the boy where they were, and he wasn't sure he wanted to out himself as smarter than he appeared.

It was in Belgium that he was first chained to a stake. To prevent him running away, Firouz would later explain. How his flight had only been considered a possibility upon leaving the country where he'd been born, the boy would never understand. But once the idea that he was capable of escaping was in his head, he knew that it would be his future. From that moment on, there wasn't a moment that passed that the boy wasn't weighing his options and waiting for someone to misstep. All he needed was one small mistake on the part of Firouz or the other men and he could slip away into the night.

At least, that was his theory. He knew already that he was strong enough to carry the chains that bound his wrists. He theorized that he could uproot the heavy stake that kept him tethered to the ground if given enough time. But in practice he found himself shaking too hard to even attempt it.

The punishment if he were to be caught would be severe. The lashings he received for misstepping while in the view of a paying audience or for retaliating when struck by Firouz or another were immensely painful and often left him sobbing into the tattered rags he called clothing. If he failed to escape, he assumed Firouz would beat him nearly to death, as he had seen him do to another freak child back in London, just before they'd traveled on.

The image of that boy trying to defend himself with his strange, claw-like hands was forever burned into his mind. Sometimes it made him angry, but mostly it just frightened him. He hated how much he feared Firouz. He hated having to fear anybody. I_ should be feared,_ he thought_, it is my face that frightens people so!_

In the twelve years he had been with the freak show, only two people had ever bothered to try to teach him anything. Firouz spoke to him constantly during lashings and meals, hoping that the boy would begin to speak. Another freak, a young man who'd been born with a deformed spine that left him permanently doubled over, read to him. He never learned the young man's name, but after supper he would hide near where the boy was kept and read whatever books he could get his hands on to him.

But that young man had long since been left behind and the boy couldn't remember if it had been in France or Austria that he'd last seen the man he could almost have called his friend. The boy had no real concept of loneliness, considering he'd spent a good amount of his life stuffed in a cage and denied even the most basic human contact, but he decided that what he felt for that hunchbacked boy must've been loneliness. He missed him so.

It was on a particularly dark and stormy night that the boy found himself left completely alone in a small, dark tent. He was not afforded a lantern, but it did not matter. He could see nearly as well in the dark as he could in the light. Firouz and the others weren't aware of this, as far as he could tell. He was deprived of light because they thought it was an inconvenience for him, not because they knew he could function without it. His chains were long enough that he could reach the exit but not much farther beyond, and over the sounds of thunder he could hear the roar of a crowd. There was a thin rug near the stake for him to sleep on.

He decided that he rather liked being alone this way. Nobody was poking him or hitting him, no one was dragging him into a cage, it was almost as if he'd been forgotten. He hadn't been given his evening meal yet, but he'd gladly go hungry if it meant he didn't have to endure any pain.

It was as he was contemplating his lack of supper that he heard the first shrill scream. His eyes widened and he dropped to the ground, fearful that it may have been a wild animal tearing through the camp. It took two more screams before he realized it was no animal. It reminded him most of the young girls that would shriek and cling to their mothers upon seeing his ghastly visage.

He crept over to where the fabric of the tent separated and peered outside. The camp was mostly dark, only a few lanterns still lit near the center of camp. The screams seemed to be coming from behind his tent, somewhere near the edge of the little settlement. Each shriek sounded more desperate than the last, and that awakened an anger deep inside the boy that was unlike anything he'd ever felt before. It was as though something deep within him snapped and he could no longer control himself.

He turned his attention to the chains that bound him to the stake at the center of the tent. It was at least a foot in diameter and driven deep into the ground, with the heavy chain wrapped countless times around it and secured with multiple padlocks. He had studied his chains extensively over the past few months since they'd arrived in Greece, and he knew that if he could unlatch even one of the locks he could likely unwind the chain, but he was never allowed anything that could act as a lock pick.

He began to wonder how heavy a rock would have to be to smash a padlock. Looking around his tent in the darkness, he noticed a particularly large rock that was nearly the size of his foot. How his handlers had overlooked such a formidable weapon, he'd never understand, but he was grateful for it. He wrapped the long, thin fingers of his left hand around it and brought it over to the stake.

He brought it down as hard as he could on one of the locks, and it dented significantly. When he reached down to pull it away, the loop came away easily. He dispatched with the other three locks in a similar fashion and unwrapped the chain. He looped it over his shoulder and returned to the tent entrance, willing whoever was screaming to cry out just once more so he could locate them. The chain felt so much lighter than it ever had, as though it had been replaced with a rope of the finest silk.

_A lovely weapon it will make, _he thought as he exited the tent. One final, choked wail escaped from a very familiar tent, that of Firouz.

He broke into a clunky run, his legs not used to the freedom of movement. As he approached the tent, he was amused by the lack of guards. _How many times has something like this happened? Do they all just turn a blind eye because he's Firouz?_ He growled as he thought of his own time spent in the man's private tent. That pain had been a special, terrible pain unlike anything else the man did to him. It had taken a long time for the boy to push those memories from his mind the first time.

Now he hoped they would remain as fresh and raw as they felt right then. They fueled his anger nearly as well as the pained whimpering that was coming from within the darkened tent. For a long moment, the boy stood near the entrance to the tent, listening and waiting.

A thick chuckle was the noise that made him enter. _So, Firouz wishes to laugh at pain? I shall show him pain_, he thought as he took the chain in both hands, holding it taut like the rope that was held against his neck so often onstage, a threat of death for the walking corpse. So often the question was asked of his audience, 'can a corpse die?'

So often they would lean forward in anticipation of learning the answer as Firouz would choke him. Tonight he would ask a question, his first since the single-word question of, "Mama?"

"Can a monster die?" he asked, his voice a low, throaty croak.

"Whose is that voice?" Firouz asked. The boy smiled. By speaking, the man had given away his location. He turned and navigated through the long tunnels of silken sheets that lined the inside of the man's large tent until he reached the makeshift bedchamber. What he saw made his blood boil. There, upon the man's bed of cushions and plush blankets, was Firouz in a most compromising position with a girl who couldn't have been more than ten years old.

"Who's there?" Firouz asked again as he pushed himself to his feet. The instant he was off of the girl, she rolled away from him and hid.

"Come now, you don't know the voice of, what is it you called me the night you purchased me? Your most prized possession?" There was a note of amusement to the boy's voice as he realized that Firouz couldn't see him. He stepped closer to the man but remained just beyond his reach.

"The boy with the death's head?" Firouz asked with a disbelieving laugh. "Impossible. The corpse-boy cannot speak! He is a mute!"

"That is how he wishes you to see him," said the boy. Firouz was looking toward the entrance to the room; his back was turned to the boy. He would never have a better shot than he did right then. He lunged forward, bringing the chain down around the man's neck and pulling it tight. Firouz threw his arms up and clawed at the boy's arms. It was only then that either of them realized exactly how much taller the boy was than the man. Firouz came to the boy's underarm, but just by barely. He was no match.

The noises that escaped from the man's throat were unpleasant, and each one made the boy's grip tighten until the man ceased his fighting and slumped forward against the chain.

The boy let go and Firouz fell to the ground with a heavy _thud_. The girl who'd hidden somewhere in the room gave a shrill scream as she realized what had happened, and it was only then that the boy began to hear signs of life from elsewhere in the camp. He knew he was running out of time.

He turned to the body on the floor and began to rummage through the man's pockets. In his shirt pocket, he found the key he was looking for. He made short work of undoing the chains that bound his wrists and turned to the man's body once more.

At the man's hip, he found a small purse filled with coins. He took it and one of the scarves that hung near the bed before stealing away into the night.

All around him, the camp stirred and woke. The boy stumbled and fell a few times, letting out terrified moans each time he landed on the ground between tents.

He didn't allow himself to stop running until he was far beyond the outskirts of the camp, in a thick patch of trees that the moon's light couldn't penetrate.

For the first time in his life, he was free. He had no concept of freedom beyond no longer having to endure undue pain, but that was enough for him. To think of the larger connotations of his freedom would only serve to terrify the boy as he found a hollow stump that he could squeeze into and hide for the night.

The sound of the angry mob that quickly assembled back at the camp made him eager to continue onward, but even with his ability to see in the dark it would be difficult and dangerous to travel too far in the darkness.

He knew he wouldn't sleep that night. How could anyone sleep in his situation, after all? Adrenaline coursed through his veins from his daring escape and the life he'd claimed—

His eyes widened in horror as he realized that he had actually killed a man. He looked down at his impossibly long-fingered hands and wished that he could shed them and grow new ones that weren't guilty of such a crime.

_I _am_ a monster, _he thought miserably as he wedged himself into the hollow stump. It was barely tall enough to conceal him as he sat, but he didn't worry too much about the men from the fair finding him there. Part of him, a particularly morose part of him which called itself his conscience, hoped that he would be found and justice served.

He wondered if the child he saved would understand his intent. How terrifying it must have been to be in such a compromising position having to listen to a man die.

Beyond his stump he heard distant shouting and screaming as the mob searched for him throughout the night, but it never came so close that he worried he'd be found.

As the voices finally quieted and morning broke, the boy almost felt hopeful for his future.


	5. Chapter 4: Turkey, 1859

**Tiny meaningless author's note: I love these secondary characters. I love ALL of these secondary characters.**

**Also I love you, my readers. **

**Now let's all get drunk and play ping pong.**

Firouz had left quite a sum in his purse at the time of his death, and that money served the boy well through fall and winter that first year. Far more clever than he'd been given credit for in the show, he would approach innkeepers and offer his services mucking their stables or feeding their livestock in exchange for a place to sleep with the animals. It allowed him to keep his precious coins for when he needed food or to bribe someone to hide him or help him.

He managed to keep his face hidden most of the time with the scarf he'd lifted from Firouz, and it was better when he could. Anyone who glimpsed his face would scream and refuse to help him, if he was lucky. Many of those who happened to see the monster that hid beneath the expertly wrapped scarf would try to kill him without hesitation.

He couldn't stay anywhere for more than a few days out of fear for his life, though perhaps it was a good thing. He saw more that way and he wasn't all that interested on settling down in any one place just yet. His entire life had been traveling; to settle down now would be outside of his nature.

Besides, he'd heard whispers in the camp of a place far beyond any of the places where the show had ever set up. A land where his face wouldn't be the death sentence it had been throughout Greece: Persia. Firouz had spoken fondly of the land and its people. Persia had been his favorite subject to just ramble on and on about when he was disciplining the boy.

He knew it wouldn't be an easy journey, especially not with summer settling in and making the temperatures nearly unbearably hot. The scarf he used to hide himself proved to make the heat more of an issue than it had in previous years. He couldn't risk taking the scarf off unless he was certain he was alone and would not be seen. His skin began to pucker and weep from lack of proper air flow to dry his sweat.

Great, gaping sores began to develop on his cheeks and forehead. They caused him immense pain anytime the scarf would move against them.

As summer hit with all its intensity, the boy approached the Turkish border. He only knew he was approaching the border because of the sudden shift in spoken language. Though he could still understand most of what was shouted at him— and people were always shouting at him— he was growing frustrated by his limited understanding of Turkish.

The last thing he needed was to stand out further than he already did. The Turkish people he'd encountered as he neared the border already distrusted him enough for the accent with which he spoke. It was strange and hardly placeable, a cross between French and Greek and the odd inflections that Firouz had impressed upon him.

Once he crossed the border into Turkey, he stopped approaching the innkeepers with intent to earn a free night sleeping out by the livestock. There was something disconcerting about the way that the locals would glare at him as he passed, even when he was determined to move only in shadow so as not to be seen.

He slept in a ditch his first night traveling through Turkey, and it was possibly the worst mistake he had made in all the time that had passed since he escaped the freak show. He hadn't wanted to stop, but there was something positively frightening about the road ahead. Even though he could see just fine in the dark, it would be much easier for someone to sneak up on him. Best to continue when it was light.

He wouldn't get the chance. Just before sunrise, the barrel of a gun was shoved into his face.

"Up," a gruff voice ordered him. Before he could react, a small, nimble hand snaked under his arm and forced him upright. Once on his feet, he nearly toppled forward into the man who held a gun on him. "Can you walk?"

The boy nodded absently as he tried to figure out exactly how many people had come upon him. Up on the road there was a cart with a line of people behind it.

"Go, then. You shall take the place of old Habib, who tragically met his end this afternoon. The Shah will be pleased to not have lost a slave after all."

"Slave?" the boy exclaimed. "Please, I—"

"That's enough out of you. Now _move_." The man who held the gun level with the boy's chest lunged forward, striking the boy with the gun. It took two more strikes before the boy did as he was told. Behind the cart, he had heavy chains shackled to his wrists and ankles. He was put at the end of the line of tired-looking men and women in tattered clothing that looked more pitiful than the scraps he'd been given to wear at the freak show.

The cart moved quickly, far more quickly than was comfortable for any of them to walk. Even the boy and his freakishly long legs couldn't keep up.

When they finally did stop, those who were chained to the cart were just left where they stood. Those closest to the cart had to hold their arms up uncomfortably as they sat on the uneven rocky road.

"They're going to make you remove the scarf from your face soon," said a young man who was chained four people ahead of the boy.

"They can't," the boy protested. "They'll sell me back to the show."

"I thought you looked familiar!" said the elderly woman who was chained ahead of the boy. "You— You're the boy that went missing! You have nothing to worry about there, my friend. Half of us here are from the show Firouz owned. Without him, his brothers bickered amongst each other. They're probably still back there." She looked at him sadly, and he inched away from her in confusion.

She knew who he was, likely knew what he looked like, yet had not recoiled in fear. "You were oft spoken of after your disappearance that night. There was a little girl who swore up and down that you were hiding in the shadows that night, waiting for Firouz to fall asleep."

The boy was thankful that he had still been allowed to keep the scarf covering his face, for he had gone quite pale. _How could she know? No one there knew my voice—_

"The evidence found in his tent did suggest it was your doing," she continued, "but with Firouz gone, there was no one to organize a formal investigation. His brothers were not that bright."

"Why are you telling me this?" he replied once he was sure he would not choke on his voice. The woman smiled.

"Because talking's all we have now, child. And you looked like you needed a story."

"We're chained up here with a murderer?" another woman, a few ahead in line from the one who'd been talking, asked in horror.

"What's he really gonna do to you now? Terrifying lanky wonder that he is."

"I am no m-murderer!" the boy stammered.

"Quiet down back there!" one of the men that rode on the cart shouted. "You will wake the horses!"

_Horses._ The boy's eyes twinkled as he remembered the great beasts that pulled the cart they so feebly followed. _If I can just get to one of the horses—_

His thought was rudely halted as a rough pair of hands tore the scarf from his face. He howled in surprise and tried to wrestle the scarf away, but was met with the butt of a gun to his face. He fell back to the ground, dazed and bleeding.

"A truly hideous beast we've got here!" said the man who'd hit him with the gun. The sudden introduction of torch light all but blinded him as he was forced to his feet. "Far too hideous for such a fine piece of silk! Who'd you steal this from, boy?"

He regretted ever having stopped that first night in Turkey. The dry air caused his nose hole a great deal of pain now that it was exposed. He'd grown accustomed to the luxury of hiding. Covering all but his eyes, he'd been able to use his own breath to keep the air inside his makeshift mask breathable.

Now, especially with a torch held close enough to singe the skin of his forehead, he found breathing nearly unbearable.

"Look at the beast with which you walk, slaves. Know that he is worth more than you could ever hope to be. The Shah will be pleased for this discovery. May even allow me to marry one of his lovely daughters," the man declared with a waggle of his eyebrows. All at once, the shackles that bound the boy were undone, and he found himself held only by a firm fist around his upper arm.

"We can't have something like _you_ walking with the slaves, boy. There'll be hell to pay if you arrive too damaged."

He was hoisted up into the cart before being chained once more, although this time the chains were far lighter.

As his eyes adjusted to the lighting, he realized that he was now in the company of four unchained men, including the one who had discovered his hiding place in the ditch and the one who had shackled him in the first place.

"You really are an ugly thing, aren't you boy?" one of them said. "Do you have a name?"

The boy thought for a moment and shook his head. He'd been known as the Boy With a Death's Head or the Amazing Living Corpse in various places that the show had stopped, but he couldn't really consider either of those _names_. Not that he'd willingly call himself.

"Everyone ought to have a name. Myself, I am Nazir. This fellow to my left is Mateo, and the one who somehow has slept through all of this is Saeed. The one who is now angrily beating a slave, that is Yousef. He will probably not be your best friend on this journey."

The boy didn't know what to say in reply and so he said nothing, merely nodded as he tried to keep his face out of the light cast by the torches that lined the outside of the cart. How he missed having his pilfered scarf to cover his face with!

However he was quite happy to feel the weight of his few remaining coins from the purse pilfered from the dead body of Firouz. If he was careful, they might not be discovered at all. Certainly that would help matters when he managed to sneak away with one of their horses.

"We should give you a name. What kind of boy grows into manhood without a name?"

"It really does not concern me," the boy said, trying to brush off the continued name business.

"A man's only as good as his name," Nazir continued. "And to sport a face so gruesome as yours my friend, you'll need quite the name. Especially if you're to face the Shah."

"Who is the Shah?" the boy asked. The men who were awake all turned to stare at him in amusement.

"How can one not know who the Shah is? Why, he's the ruler of Persia! All tremble before him, for he is mighty and his kingdom is vast!" This time it was Mateo who spoke. His accent was unlike any that the boy had heard yet in his travels, but some part of it made him miss England. He'd only known the inside of one grimy flat and two long streets in London, but it was still his home. That was what he felt in his heart.

The boy said nothing in return, instead he drew his legs up to his chest and sighed. All he wanted was freedom, and now it seemed he would be just a shiny new toy for the ruler of a country. He couldn't imagine what that would entail. The last person who had claimed ownership over him had abused and neglected him. Could this Shah really be any different?

The journey to Persia was long and immensely boring for the boy. The men who rode with him in the cart were mildly amusing some of the time, but mostly just bickered amongst themselves and drank to excess. The boy found that there was little to be learned from them.

He found it was best to keep his attention forward and not to allow his mind to linger too long on those who were pulled along behind the cart. He would cover his ears and squeeze his eyes shut whenever any of them was whipped; he couldn't stand the sickening sound of the whip against skin. It made him wish for death.

One particular subject that had come up quite often on the journey to Persia was a name for the boy. The four men could not decide on a name that all of them liked or could even agree suited the boy. Everything was either too common or carried connotations of beauty, and they all agreed that he deserved something unique that wouldn't fool anyone into thinking him a handsome man.

That did not leave them much to work with, but that didn't really bother the boy. It wasn't the first time he'd entertained the thought of having a name, nor would it likely be the last. Truthfully, he only knew a few names, and most of those were connected to people who had been cruel to him. He didn't want to connect himself to anybody cruel.

When they were approaching the Shah's palace and the boy still had not received a name, it was decided by Nazir that the Shah himself would be the only one wise enough to grant one to the boy. Mateo and Yousef did not seem convinced that it was a good idea. Saeed gave no opinion one way or the other, in much the same way that he had for the entire long ride in the cart.

In fact, Saeed was the only one who honestly still held the boy's attention. The man pretended to sleep almost the entire time, except at meal times or rest stops. When the other men bickered amongst themselves, he would only pipe in to say something incredibly sarcastic.

The boy figured that Saeed was the leader of the little group because of this. He saw no reason for a man who did so little to still be allowed in the cart, unless he was the leader or another freak.

The cart came to a stop just inside the gates to the palace, and it was then that the boy was unloaded into a smaller cart. It was only big enough for two people. At first, he thought that Nazir would be the one to ride with him. When Saeed plopped down next to him, he was more than a little surprised.

"Nervous yet, kid?" Saeed asked as the cart began to move, pulled along by a much smaller, older looking horse than the ones that had brought them into the country. It was a much slower ride than he expected.

"I don't know what that means," the boy replied. "I am a little afraid. I didn't want to be someone's property again."

"I assure you, you will not be treated as property." The boy looked over at the man with a curious glint in his eyes. "That is not to say you will be treated as an equal. The Shah is wise enough to know that people are best dealt with as people, not objects. You will be granted more freedom here than you ever were in the freak show."

The curiosity turned to confusion as the boy listened eagerly to the man. Saeed laughed.

"Of course you do not remember me. I worked for Firouz in Belgium. I was the one who escorted you to and from your cage. Never pegged you for a daring escape, I must say," he explained. "Even with how he repressed you. I did not think you had enough free thought in you to leave."

"Silence does not denote stupidity," the boy said. Saeed laughed even harder.

"Truly it does not!" he agreed. "My associates are still learning such things." He made eye contact with the boy then. "I have a feeling that, when you are ready, you will come up with your own name. Do not allow the Shah or anyone else to force a moniker on you purely because your lack of one makes them uncomfortable."


	6. Chapter 5: Persia, 1861

**AN: What's this? A chapter on a Tuesday? WHAAAT? **

**I felt generous. Or I needed to stroke my ego. Either way, enjoy an additional chapter.**

**Nitwit. Blubber. Oddment. Tweak.**

Saeed had been right; the boy had more freedom as one of the Shah's possessions than he had ever experienced in his life, save for those first few days after his escape. He was treated like any other man, not like a servant or slave. While he was to be chaperoned wherever he went, his movements were not restricted.

About twice per week he would be brought before the Shah, who he would have to entertain in one way or another. At first, it was mostly the boy standing incredibly still as the Shah inspected nearly every inch of him, listing off various oddities he found on the way. The older man insisted that the boy sit in on lessons with his children when he learned how limited the boy's vocabulary truly was. When asked about his schooling, the boy had merely shook his head.

The boy thrived once he began his schooling, and in two years he had all but caught up with the Shah's eldest daughter, Azadeh, who was nearly finished with her schooling. She was seventeen years old and the very picture of beauty with long black hair she kept tied back in a thick braid, a radiant smile that could light up an entire room, and large brown eyes that sparkled in the sunlight.

Although she looked upon the boy in the same fearful way that most had in the past, he found himself quite smitten with her.

One of his greatest freedoms, at least in his own opinion, was that he was allowed to cover his face. At least, when he was not with the Shah. He had masks of silk and leather, as well as scarves with pre-cut eye holes that he could tie over his head when he chose to leave the confines of the palace. The sun was harsh and his wispy blond hair couldn't protect the delicate skin of his scalp from its rays.

He had taken great care to never be seen by Azadeh with his face uncovered, but he knew that the Shah had likely told her of his corpse-like visage. There was little other reason he could see for the pained way she looked at him or the soft, almost kind words she spoke to him. She wouldn't make eye contact with him; most wouldn't.

He spent the majority of his free time in the Shah's personal library reading everything he could get his hands on. There was a small space that he found he could crawl into and nearly disappear between two of the ornate bookcases, and he delighted in discovering that he would still have enough light to read by.

"Boy," she called on a particularly hot and sunny summer's day. She did not know about his hiding place, and was confused when she entered the library to find it seemingly empty.

The looked up from the book he'd been reading about architecture. "Yes, highness?" he asked. She jumped at the sound of his disembodied voice.

"My father wishes to see you," she said after a moment.

The boy sighed and closed his book before hoisting himself up and out of his hiding place. The girl's eyes widened in surprise as she watched him come out of what she'd thought was a space too small for someone to fit into, particularly someone so tall.

"Where might I find him?" he asked as he smoothed out the robes he wore. The bright colors of the silks that adorned his skeletal form made his skin seem even paler than it was. Though he already was covered from his neck to his ankles, he knew that much of his arms and the lower half of his face was exposed. The scarf he'd tied over his head to shield him from the sun left the lower half of his face exposed, starting just below where his nose should have been.

Azadeh had every reason to stare at him. She'd only ever seen him covered with one of his masks, and they covered his entire face. She hadn't been properly prepared for the papery, yellowed skin of his chin and neck or his chapped, white lips. Still, he grew angry with the way she stared.

"Highness?" he snapped, drawing her out of the strange, fascinated trance she seemed to have fallen into. "Where am I to go?"

"Father would like to meet you in the north tower." The boy cringed. He'd taken interest in the north tower when he'd first arrived years ago. It was where prisoners were held and executions were performed. Instinctively he found himself rubbing his throat. The girl smiled— how could she smile while he was within her sight? He couldn't understand— and shook her head slightly.

"He's got something to ask you is all," she said. "He's got a job he thinks you'll be interested in— can I ask you something?"

The boy looked at her, confused, but sighed and nodded. He knew what the question was likely to be.

"You always have your face covered. Is…" She couldn't quite come up with the words she wanted to use, so she gestured to her face. "Is all of that from your time in the freak show, or—"

"I was disfigured from birth," the boy replied, cutting her off. "Though I have far more scars now than I did then."

"May I see?" she asked. He felt his blood run cold and his heart all but stop beating completely. He shook his head.

"You truly do not want to see," he told her. She put her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow.

"Technically you belong to my father. I could order you to remove your mask."

"Highness—"

"Azadeh," she corrected him. It was his turn to raise an eyebrow.

"You would threaten to use your nobility to force my hand and then insist I use your first name in the same breath?" he asked.

"Father doesn't like to be kept waiting," she said, choosing to ignore his words.

The boy nodded once and turned to leave.

"Boy," she called. He stopped and waited. "Aren't you going to finally tell me your name?"

"…I already knew your name."

"That's not the point."

"I don't have a name."

"How can you not have a name?" Azadeh demanded. The boy sighed and raised his hands to untie the scarf that covered his face. They were trembling as he undid the simple knot that held it in place.

Though there were nights that he still woke up shaking and unable to breathe from horrible nightmares of his past, there had not been a time he'd begun trembling in fear since the Shah had granted him his own large bedchamber with no lock on the door— an affirmation of his freedom— but he was certain now that the Shah's daughter could see how he shook now.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and turned to face her once more. She gasped quite loudly and staggered back three steps before steadying herself. As he opened his eyes, he found her staring at him still, wide-eyed, with her hands clamped firmly across her mouth as if to prevent herself from screaming. He allowed her another agonizing minute to memorize his cursed countenance before he finally covered himself with the scarf again.

"Tell me, what name would you give such a hideous beast?" he asked, keeping his voice steady. She could see the pain coupled with anger in his eyes. She said nothing. "That is precisely what my mother came up with. In the freak show I was the Demon Boy and the Living Corpse. Tell me, are those acceptable, respectable names?"

"I didn't mean— I didn't know. I am sorry."

The boy turned and strode quickly and clumsily out of the library. As he crossed the lavish west yard, he tripped and landed splayed in a small reflecting pond. He cringed when he heard laughter and realized that someone had seen his embarrassment.

Although his first instinct was to search for the person who laughed at his misfortune and try to defend himself, he fought the urge to look around and instead focused on picking himself up. He groaned as he realized that his robes were now covered in mud. His room was near the south tower and he was already keeping the Shah waiting; he couldn't run and change.

Instead, he slipped out of the outermost layer and flipped it inside-out before putting it back on. The heat of the day would dry him long before he reached the Shah, and the fabric was thick enough that the mud would not show through.

As he approached the tower, he was filled with a sense of dread. For the second time in a single day, he found himself trembling as he ascended the stairs, following the sound of the Shah's laughter as he was entertained by _somebody_ as he waited for his corpse-boy to arrive.

"Ah, there you are!" the Shah exclaimed as the boy entered the room. "I was about to send Saeed to find you. Azadeh forgets so often to do what I've asked of her."

"I apologize," the boy said. "I was speaking with your daughter and did not realize how much time had passed."

"So she _did_ remember to find you. Splendid." The Shah smiled and stood up from the lavish pile of cushions on which he had been sitting. "I have quite an offer to make you, boy. I have seen some of the books you've been reading. How would you like to practice some of the skills you've read about?"

"I don't understand," the boy said hesitantly.

"Up those steps behind you, all the way at the top of the tower, sits a man awaiting punishment for his crimes. He has occupied that cell for five years now, and I think that is long enough. It is time for his sentence to be carried out."

"His sentence?" The boy was only half-playing dumb. _Is he really about to ask me to kill someone,_ he wondered. He'd seen the question dance in the man's eyes before as he'd talked endlessly about topics of little import to him. _Why is he so afraid to just come out and ask?_

"By now you know I've heard the rumors," he continued. "I've seen the way my slaves look at you and speak of you. They fear you because they believe you killed that man Firouz. And I believe they're right." There was actual, physical pain in the boy's chest when the Shah's gaze turned from friendly to cold as he spoke those words. "I believe that you are a cold-blooded killer. And I can use that. I will offer you a tidy sum to execute the man in that cell as efficiently as you can."

The boy stared at him, stunned. He had never entertained the idea that the Shah could see him as an equal, but to be called a cold-blooded killer… He couldn't wrap his head around it.

"Do we have a deal, boy?"

With a heavy sigh, the boy nodded. One of the Shah's slaves approached him and handed him a length of rope and a knife. Wordlessly, he turned and retreated to the stairs. He hesitated, looking up the seemingly-endless staircase he was to climb, before squaring his shoulders and beginning his ascension. The Shah laughed darkly as the boy disappeared from his view.

With each floor he passed, the staircase grew more and more decrepit. As he approached the top of the tower, he found himself having to dodge debris and avoid wide black holes in the stairs that threatened to swallow him up.

At the top, he found a small landing occupied by one of the Shah's guards, a young man he'd seen a handful of times in the past year or so. Behind the man was a large, locked door.

As he approached, the young man turned and unlocked the door behind him and stepped out of the boy's way as best he could. The boy hesitated as he grabbed the handle to the door.

"If I might offer a word of advice," the guard said as the boy pulled the door open. The boy stopped, listening. "Don't hide your face. Let him die in fear. What he's done is unforgivable."

The boy nodded and opened the door. Inside the cell he found a mangy looking man of about thirty curled up in the corner under a tattered blanket. Instantly, he took pity on the man. His living conditions were comparable to those that the boy had faced in the freak show. As he took in the man's cell, he wondered what exactly the man had done to deserve such a fate.

It was as the guard pulled the door closed that the man woke. With the door closed, there was only a small rectangle of light to break up the near pitch black darkness of the cell.

"Is someone there?" the man asked in what the boy believed to be French. He wasn't as good with French as he was with the other languages he'd been exposed to. Rather than stammer and show weakness now, he said nothing. "Of course there's no one there. There never is. That's how they're punishing me," the man continued. The boy stayed near the door, safely hidden in the darkness, and watched the man as he stretched and sat upright.

"Did you at least leave me some food this time, or was that just noise to disrupt my sleep once again?" the man grumbled as he pushed himself to his feet. The man's movements were small and pained; he'd obviously spent many a night clinging desperately to that tattered blanket for warmth. Beyond the way the man hunched over, the boy was startled to see another person as thin as he was. The man's ribcage was clearly visible. _How long have they been torturing this man?_

"No food?" the man asked as he felt around the floor by the door. His voice was filled with sadness as he said the words. "Of course. They intend to starve me after all. Too cowardly to carry out my sentence themselves. The Shah can't watch the life leave someone's eyes himself. That would be too messy."

"What crime have you committed to warrant such a sentence as this?" The boy's voice echoed loudly through the small cell, causing the man to jump and look around for its source.

"Who's there?" he asked. "Whose is that voice?"

"Answer the question," the boy demanded. Outside, he could hear the guard retreating. He wondered absently if the Shah could hear his words.

"What does it matter?" the man asked. "What will recounting my crimes once more do?"

The boy crossed the room to where the man was crouched over the corner he'd been sleeping and drew the knife he'd been given. At once, he pressed it to the man's neck.

"Do not toy with me, old man. I have asked you a question and I expect you to answer," the boy growled. To his surprise, the man chuckled.

"So, they've finally sent someone to kill me. Five years I've rotted away here, almost thought the Shah had finally forgotten about me." The boy pressed the blade more firmly against the man's skin. "I was the royal doctor. When the Shah's wife went into labor with their youngest child, there were complications. The Shah went against my advisements and both the babe and his wife perished. I am here because I could not save them."

The boy was stunned by the man's declaration.

"Were you really unaware?" the man asked. "I am here because my negligence caused the Shah to lose two of his family members. I've awaited my death these past years, but it's not come. It seems that will finally be remedied." It was then that the man looked directly at the boy. "I am ready."

"I—" The boy couldn't form words. He had expected the man to have stolen something or actively killed someone. He hadn't expected a doctor. He sheathed the knife in his belt and took the length of rope, fashioning it into a sloppy noose from a diagram he'd seen in a book.

"I've gone mental," the man said. "I'm talking to voices in my head. There's no one—" Those would prove to be his last words as the boy slipped the noose over his head and pulled it taut. The feeble man gave less of a struggle than Firouz had, though the boy knew that was mostly because the man had so little strength left in his body.

He felt more that he was performing a mercy killing than an execution, and he felt slightly dirty knowing that he would be paid for this act.

When he was sure that the man was dead, he removed the rope from his neck and approached the door. The guard opened it for him immediately. Without a word, the boy ran down the stairs, returning to the Shah only because his guards blocked him from exiting the tower completely.

"I trust that the deed is done?" the Shah asked. The boy nodded, saying nothing. His heart was pounding and the way that the fabric of his clothing rubbed against his skin was suddenly intensely uncomfortable and all he wanted was to go curl up in his overly plush bed and cry until he fell asleep. But he wasn't sure he still knew how to cry, and even if he did he knew that it would do him no good. It wouldn't bring the man back to life, it wouldn't absolve him of his perceived crimes.

He couldn't understand why the Shah would demand a man suffer that way for the death of his wife. There was no one he could say he would want someone killed for. Not even his mother.

"Good. As promised, here is your payment." The Shah tossed a purse brimming with coins toward the boy. It landed on the polished stone floor in front of the boy and slid until it hit his foot and came to a stop. He reached down and picked it up. He had never seen so much money, and he currently resided in a palace plated in gold.

"I may call on you again to perform a similar service in the future. Do you find that to be agreeable, boy?"

The boy hesitated. Sure, there had been an enjoyable rush as he'd strangled the man to death, just as there had been with Firouz. But could he really kill another person? He wasn't sure. He was detached enough from the general population that the thought of taking a life didn't disturb him so much as it might've disturbed the average person, but there was still a strange, nagging voice in the back of his head that told him it was immoral.

He nodded. "I would be pleased to serve you," he said, choosing his words carefully. If he was to retain his freedom, he decided, it was best to keep the Shah happy. Saeed made eye contact with the boy briefly as the guards were ordered away from the staircase. Was that hatred that he saw, hidden behind that pained smile? The boy couldn't be sure. Saeed turned away from him almost as soon as their eyes had met. The boy blinked, and he was gone.


	7. Chapter 6: Persia, 1868

The boy had learned quickly that any amount of empathy he felt for the prisoners he killed would only make the act of killing more difficult. Over seven years he had effectively destroyed what remained of his empathy and compassion.

It may have been the only thing that saved him. Even after removing his mask and showing Azadeh what she thought she wanted to see, he'd held onto his ridiculous crush on her. Even as her friendly smile grew less friendly when she greeted him, he held onto that crush. Even as she withdrew from her studies to avoid him, he hoped things could get better.

At first, she had tried to speak to him the way she always had, but eventually she ceased all contact with him and became engaged to a young man from a country the boy had never heard of. He remained alone in his bedchamber for more than a week when he learned the news.

It had been three years since she had gone off to marry that man, and though the boy tried to tell himself that she wouldn't have been able to love him anyway, he still felt a pain in his heart at the thought of her. And she still crossed his mind far more than he cared.

It was always at night that she crept into the corners of his mind. She'd treated him more kindly than most. Still distant, still never touching him or showing him any amount of love, but she hadn't ever tried to hurt him. Not until that fateful day that he'd first been paid to take a life.

It felt like forever ago now that the boy was well into his adulthood. He'd been perfecting the art of hardening his heart for close to a decade now.

It was late at night when a young slave knocked on the door to his bedchamber. Though he had been lounging in bed, he had not been sleeping.

"Come," he called lazily as he sat up. The door creaked open and a small child stepped in. She couldn't have been much more than eight or nine years old, and she looked positively terrified to be sent to the darkened bedchamber of the frighteningly tall man who always wore a mask. He sat forward, curious. It was rare that he was summoned at night, rarer still that the slave sent to retrieve him was a female.

But the girl did not speak. She stepped into the room, closed the door, and looked uneasily into the dark abyss that surrounded her. The boy slipped a mask onto his face, leaned over and lit the lamp that sat at his bedside, more for the girl's comfort than anything. The addition of light only seemed to frighten her further.

"Are you lost?" he asked, his voice even and low. The girl shook her head, no. "Is there a reason you've come to my bedchamber?"

"I am a gift from the Shah," the girl whispered. Her voice was so quiet that it barely reached his ears, but he was certain he'd heard her correctly. He exhaled hard, as though he'd been punched in the chest. Visions of the night he'd caught Firouz in the act danced in his head.

The very thought of what the Shah could have been thinking, sending him a child. There was no questioning his intentions. One needed only look at the girl's posture to see how much she feared what would happen next. When he stood, she let out a whimper of surprise. He ignored it. He knew he stood far taller than most men, and to the tiny girl that stood on the opposite end of the room he had to look like a giant.

As he approached the door, she shrank into the shadows, inching away from him and making no attempts to hide her fear.

"Come with me," he said, extending one long, bony hand in her direction. She stared at it, unsure of his intentions. He rolled his eyes and reached for her arm. He took her firmly, yet gently, by the wrist and pulled her to her feet. As his fingers wrapped around her tiny wrist, she gasped at how cool his skin was against her own. "You have nothing to fear from me," he said. He could feel the girl trembling from fear anyway within his grasp.

_Of course_, he thought, _everyone fears the assassin. _

The guards that stood just outside of the Shah's bedchamber seemed to be expecting him as he approached. They stepped aside for him and drew back the curtains that separated the chamber from the hall. The boy, hardly a boy any longer as his features had stretched and shifted into some semblance of that of an adult, had been to the Shah's bedchamber in the night many a night, summoned from what the guards had assumed to be the deepest sleep. In fact, he hardly slept anymore.

Sleep meant that the screams of the countless fools whose lives he'd ended would reach his ears and torment him all night long. Sleep meant restless dreams of Azadeh and Firouz and Saeed. Sleep meant he'd likely wake up even more exhausted than he'd been when he'd nodded off.

Now it was his turn to wake the Shah from his slumber.

"Is this some variety of joke? Because I do not find it amusing, Highness," he said in his smooth, velvety baritone. No longer did his voice crack or falter as he spoke. As he'd hardened himself against the atrocities he had seen and participated in, he'd found a strange calmness that did wonders for keeping his voice level, even as he grew more enraged by the minute.

_What kind of sick bastard sends a child to the bedchamber of a man like me?_

The Shah snored loudly and seemed to jump, opening his eyes. He was awake by the time the masked man had finished what he was saying. "Hmm?" he grunted as he heaved himself up to a sitting position. The women who stood at his bedside rushed to move cushions behind the Shah so he could rest comfortably. "Ah, I see your gift finally reached you."

"Gift? What kind of gift is a small child?" There was no masking the anger in his voice. The Shah laughed.

"You have not shown interest in any of the women I have paraded before you and I fear you have been neglecting yourself in your refusal to take a wife. And so I have sent Fautimeh to you. If she is not to your liking, perhaps in a few years—"

"I will not bed a _child_." To punctuate his words, he shoved the girl forward and released her wrist, sending her hurtling forward until she hit the foot of the Shah's bed and stopped, staring up at him with wide, fearful eyes.

The Shah's eyes flashed in the limited lamplight.

"All right, I can see that this was not one of my better thought out gifts… Dispose of it, then." The girl whipped around and looked up at the Shah in horror.

"Dispose of…"

"You said yourself you've no use for Fautimeh, so dispose of her. You know what to do with useless people. Why have you brought your problem before me at this late hour? The moon is about to set and there are dreams yet to dream. Leave me." With a wave of his hand, the Shah summoned forth his guards who escorted the girl and the masked man out of his bedchamber.

Now the girl kept her distance, ever watching the freakishly tall man. She kept her arms tucked tightly in against her chest and was actively trying to make herself as small as possible. The man stared back at her, stunned at the Shah's outburst. He'd never been contracted to kill a woman or a child.

The youngest he'd killed had been seventeen; the Shah's own son who had defected and was planning a rebellion—

—or had he been? The boy doubted it now. It wouldn't have been the first time that the Shah had tricked him.

He moved suddenly and the girl gave a shriek.

"Please don't kill me!" she exclaimed, backing away from him. For the first time in years, he wanted to cry. His eyes filled with sorrow as he knelt before her and extended his hand to her. Even crouched down on his knees, he was far taller than she was.

"I meant it when I said that you've nothing to fear from me, Fautimeh," he whispered. "I may not have use for you, but I will not end your life before it has even begun."

The girl had no reason to believe him, but with a shaky hand she reached out and took the one he offered. Slowly he stood, so as to not startle her further, and led her back to his bedchamber with a sigh. _The last thing I should be allowed to do is care for a child_, he thought with no small measure of misery.

He relinquished use of his bed to the girl, resigning himself to the lounge he'd pulled out onto his small balcony and left her to her own devices. When the sun came up, he found her sound asleep amidst his pillows and blankets. Even as she slept, the girl looked positively terrified. He imagined that was how he had appeared through his childhood.

_Was I ever so small as this girl, _he wondered as he watched her sleep, _was I ever so afraid?_

He was not expecting to be summoned by the Shah that day. If anything, he expected that the Shah would ignore him for at least a week.

So when he heard the telltale knock at his door, he was more than a little surprised.

He strode across the room to the door, which he flung open with the same violence he had for the past eight years. When the door hit his visitor, he realized that it wasn't his usual summoner. Instead, he found himself face to face with a scruffy-looking, aged man who appeared so very familiar. His name eluded the boy.

"_You_," the man exclaimed angrily. "What have you done with my daughter?"

"What—"

"_Where is my Fautimeh?_" the man demanded.

"Fautimeh is sleeping there in bed," the boy said, stepping aside to allow the man a glimpse of his bedchamber. It was all the man needed to barrel past him and scoop the girl up in his arms.

"Daddy!" the girl squealed joyously as she woke.

"My little princess," the man said tearfully as he hugged her tightly. "Has he harmed you?" The girl shook her head, no. "Has he touched you as a husband would?" Again, the girl shook her head, no.

He whipped around then to look at the masked man once more. "There is talk that the Shah's assassin has killed the girl who was meant to be his child bride," he said quietly. "I had not learned the fate of my daughter until after the rumors had already reached my ears. It seems that one cannot trust all that he hears."

The masked man said nothing, so the other man continued.

"I don't know if you remember me, boy. But I remember you. How you've changed since the day Yousef and Nazir threw you unceremoniously into the back of our cart, so many years ago."

"Saeed?" The name was merely a whisper, but Fautimeh's father smiled as he heard it.

"The disgraced Saeed Rahimi, former head of the Shah's police."

"Disgraced? How?"

The man grimaced as he finally set his daughter back on the bed. "Come, we shall not talk of such things in front of my daughter."

The masked man gestured to the balcony, and Saeed nodded as they walked out into the sun. It was shaping up to be a hot day already, and before they began to speak once more, the masked man excused himself to cover himself with a scarf to protect his skull from the sun.

"That day so long ago, how can I remember it so clearly still?" Saeed asked as the other man joined him once more on the balcony. "Why do you stand out in my memory, when I cannot even recall the face of my late wife?" He sighed.

"Where have you been all this time?"

Saeed looked up at him. "I was stripped of my title once my brother's sentence was carried out. Without my job, my family suffered. My wife and I had to sell our children to the Shah—" He glanced nervously over his shoulder at his daughter. "—and still we couldn't afford to continue living. My wife died in the pain of childbirth, the very same as the wife of the Shah. Not two hours passed after her last breath and officers I once commanded were at my doorstep with a message from the Shah."

He paused then and sighed. "Two of my children had been sold and were already in a caravan heading east. This was four years ago. They did not tell me which of my children had been sold, so I did not know who was still here, alone, at the palace. And then last month I was told in passing that my child who had remained here had perished in an accident. It was only because one of my men— my former men, excuse me," he corrected himself. "He saw you with her last night. He had spent many weeks with my family before everything fell apart. He knew that you had been gifted my Fautimeh and I had been lied to."

When Saeed had finished speaking, the masked man stared at him in awe. _What have I done?_

"That man in the cell… That first man that I…"

"That was my brother, you heard correctly." Saeed laughed darkly. "Did you think that he was kept alive because the Shah wished it? My men had a standing order that _no one_ was to execute my brother. My hope was that the Shah would realize how foolish it was to blame my brother for his wife's death. Azadeh was followed by twins and then another son within three years; the Shah's wife was simply worn out. My brother tried to convince the Shah of this before she fell pregnant, but he obviously was not willing to listen."

"And you lost your job after the execution because of your insubordination."

"Yes, and no. When the Shah decided to use you for your particular… skill… there was no further use for me. He absorbed the police back into the ranks of his guards and convinced you to dispose of the ones he didn't trust."

He turned his attention back to the girl who had fallen asleep once more across the masked man's bed. "I want you to come with us, boy. Before you protest, think back on all I just told you. Does the Shah really seem to be a man you want to continue to serve?"

"But— All of this had already begun when you brought me to the Shah, how could you speak so highly of him then?"

"A man in your position ought already know the answer to that," Saeed said. "It's illegal to speak ill of the Shah. Punishable by death." He looked at the man expectantly.

There was a long, not exactly uncomfortable silence between the two men.

"There's nothing for me out there," the man in the mask said finally.

"There's life beyond those walls," Saeed countered. "You might have a life here but you aren't _living_. You take lives for money. All your finery, your masks, your silks… paid for with blood money doing an easy job that just about any man can be trained to do. Beyond the palace walls—"

"Beyond the palace walls there's nothing for me but the opportunity to be caught and sold as a slave once more."

"You're no longer the child Yousef found so many years ago, boy. Now you're simply a nameless killer. A coward."

"I am no coward."

"You are afraid to leave here because you fear nobody will ever accept you the way the Shah has. I hate to be the one to tell it to you, but the Shah sees you as little more than the freak you see in the mirror. Sure, you might be capable of performing odd tasks for him, but he's used you to strike fear into the hearts of his subjects and to inflict death upon those he does not care for.

"I don't know what _your_ definition of a coward is, but from where I'm standing, I can see two people: a coward and my sleeping daughter." With that, Saeed walked back into the main of the bedchamber and sat beside his sleeping daughter on the bed. The masked man followed him.

"If I go with you, can you promise that I will not be sold back into slavery?" Saeed looked up at the overly tall man. "And that I will not be sold to another freak show?"

"You have my word that all I want is to get out of the country with my daughter. I have limited resources, but what I have I have to share." Once again, the man in the mask fell silent, and Saeed turned his attention back to his daughter.

The man in the mask inhaled sharply, startling the girl awake and causing Saeed to jump. "I do not know why, but I trust you, Saeed. If you say that it is in my best interest to leave here, then I will go with you."

"Gather your belongings, then. We leave at nightfall."


	8. Chapter 7: Persia, 1868

Although he was particularly skilled at keeping himself hidden, the masked man discovered quite quickly that Saeed and his child had no similar skill set. Even when he instructed Saeed to hide beneath his bed when he was summoned before the Shah that day he seemed incapable of hiding himself. Or being _quiet_, for that matter. He was _certain_ the guard had heard the man.

The Shah was in a particularly foul mood that day. He did not greet the man as he entered, nor did he even look at him.

"I've got a task for you," he said lazily. "There's a new resident waiting in the north tower. He was found guilty of setting another man's home on fire. Two slaves were killed in the blaze. Take him to the cell on the top floor. When you've got him locked up, dispose of the two men in on the floor below him. Your payment is waiting with the guard at the tower."

The man in the mask immediately knew something was off, but he chose not to react. Perhaps Saeed would be proven wrong. Perhaps the Shah could still be trusted. Perhaps…

The man walked swiftly to the tower, the punjab lasso and the very same knife the Shah had given him years ago hanging from his belt.

As the Shah's mercenary, he'd been charged with the responsibility of finding new and interesting ways to end the lives of his enemies. He'd taken this responsibility to an extreme and put the skills he'd learned from reading countless books in the Shah's library to work. The north tower was no longer something he feared— how could he, when he was the only one who knew how to navigate it without falling victim to one of the many traps he'd laid— but rather somewhere he had begun to enjoy spending time.

There was a lone guard at the base of the staircase, and he did not acknowledge the masked man as he entered. He'd come to expect to be treated as such; after he became the Shah's mercenary the only ones who would acknowledge his presence were the Shah and the palace's many slaves. Unless he sought someone out and asked them a direct question, those around him pretended he didn't exist.

In the north tower, this had worked to his advantage. One of his earliest traps, a very large hole in the stairs that he had widened so as to make completely impassable, had claimed the life of one of the Shah's police. After that, it had become common practice to have the mercenary also escort prisoners to their cells to await their eventual executions.

Such was the case with the man he found bound at the wrists just inside the tower.

"Up," he barked, nudging the prisoner with his foot. Instead of standing, the man stared up at him in horror.

"I never meant for anyone to die," the prisoner whimpered as the masked man yanked him to his feet by the arm.

"Your intentions do not matter," replied the mercenary. "Climb the stairs."

The man struggled against his restraints and the man's grip on his upper arm. That was when the mercenary calmly pulled his knife and pressed the tip of it to the prisoner's throat.

"You will walk to your cell without fighting or you will become just another stain on the floor," said the mercenary. The man became quite rigid when he felt the blade against his skin. "Which will it be?"

It was only then that the prisoner caught sight of the glowing yellow eyes that peered out from behind an ornate black scarf.

"What are you?" the prisoner whimpered. Those yellow eyes flashed with anger and the next thing he knew the prisoner found himself hitting the stairs with enough force to break one of his arms. He howled in pain as the mercenary pulled him back to his feet.

"I am death," the mercenary hissed into the prisoner's ear. "Now climb."

The pair climbed in relative silence, punctuated only by the occasional pained whimper from the prisoner as his broken arm was jostled about. Once they reached the top landing, the mercenary threw the prisoner into his cell and slammed the door with a flourish. He knew he wouldn't need to lock it. He'd made certain to leave a few parts of his less-than-lethal traps visible, and there was no way someone with legs shorter than the mercenary's would be able to cross the hole in the stairs that had already claimed one life.

As the mercenary descended the stairs, he removed the punjab lasso— a modified noose made from catgut that had been his weapon of choice over the course of his career— from his belt and loosened the knot on the scarf that covered his face. He wouldn't remove it, not until he was watching the life drain from the first doomed prisoner's eyes.

The last thing they would ever see would be his wretched visage. Somehow, it felt a fitting end to a criminal's life.

He found the first one napping and disposed of him easily. His struggling and terrified gurgling alerted the prisoner in the next cell over to the presence of the angel of death. When he entered the second cell, he was met with a swift punch to the gut.

It wasn't the first time that someone he was paid to kill had taken him by surprise. Though the pain did temporarily distract him he was able to easily slip the noose over the prisoner's head. As the prisoner scrambled to escape, the rope tightened around his neck. He let out a terrible squawk as the mercenary jerked the rope back. The prisoner slumped forward. There was a sickening crack when his head hit the floor.

The mercenary was glad to be finished with the job. He was not looking forward to sneaking away from the palace that night with a possibly broken rib, however. _You've got to be more careful,_ he scolded himself as he secured the punjab lasso to his belt once more and started down the stairs.

As he neared the bottom of the stairs, he slowed his pace and listened carefully. There was only ever one guard at the north tower. There had only been one when he'd gone up. Now he could hear at least six distinct voices. He stopped and hid in one of the many holes he'd carved out explicitly to use as hiding spaces as he heard the door to the tower open.

When he'd made his first kill in that tower so many years ago, you could enter the tower from multiple levels of the palace. Once he'd begun to fashion a death maze from the tower, the mercenary had ordered all entrances to the tower sealed save for the door that opened to the garden.

It was only now that he realized how foolish he had been. There was nowhere for him to go. He was trapped. With the Shah's police waiting for him at the base of the stairs, the man had to think fast. There would be no sneaking past them.

From where he stood, he had only two options. He could either try to scare them away or he could try to lure them up the stairs and into the maze of traps that awaited them there.

He cleared his throat and took a deep breath before throwing his voice and making it echo through the stairwell.

"Who dares to oppose the masked mercenary?" he demanded of them. The men at the bottom of the stairs fell deathly silent before one of them cried out.

"It's him!" There was the sound of flesh hitting flesh followed by a pained grunt, and then unnerved silence once more. The man in the mask waited and drank in their fear before finally speaking once more.

"I do not know who is more of a fool, the Shah or those who work for him. To think you stand a chance against a skilled killer is laughable. However, if you think you are my match, I invite you to come and find me."

Their hesitation made him laugh. The sound filled the stairwell, and the men at the bottom could've sworn it was coming from behind them. He heard the sound of the door opening and at least two of them fleeing as fast as their legs would take them, but he also heard the sound of a tentative set of footsteps approaching the stairs. _Good_, he thought. _Let them see firsthand what it is to be killed by a monster._

"Come," he called. "Come to me, if you are not cowards. Come and meet death."

The one who had begun to ascend the stairs halted then, and the mercenary peered down at him from where he hid in the shadows. _Come now, just climb up one step more and you shall serve as an example to all of your peers, _he thought.

The officer did precisely as the mercenary wanted, and stepped directly on the trigger for one of his favorite traps. Quite suddenly, eighteen arrows launched at the man who'd triggered the trap from holes in the walls, ceiling, and even the steps on which he stood. He let out a tiny gurgle of surprise as his lungs filled with blood, and he collapsed backward down the stairs.

The other officers let out terrified shrieks as he landed in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs. The mercenary let out another dark laugh, expecting the officers to flee. It was then that he felt a terrible stabbing pain in his side, just below his ribs.

Two of the remaining officers _had_ fled, but the third had remained and thrown a small knife into the darkness. It was then that the mercenary remembered the glow of his eyes and cursed his foolishness. He'd moved too far down the stairs. He was vulnerable.

He looked down at the knife that stuck in his flesh, and as his attention was pulled from the man at the base of the stairs, another knife flew past his head. It landed with a clatter on one of the steps behind him.

He turned and ran as the man began to climb the stairs, knowing that his traps should be able to take care of him. The officer managed to avoid the first few triggers he passed, but as he reached the third floor landing, he triggered two trip wires in fast succession. The mercenary had only a split second to turn and look before the officer was sliced to ribbons as five axes fell at him in fast succession. The mercenary was showered with the officer's blood as the axes hit their mark.

Pieces of the officer fell to the floor and tumbled down the stairs, and the mercenary kicked the rest of the body to the side, dodging the axes as they swung lazily back and forth. He was beginning to feel a bit lightheaded and he knew it was best to get himself out of immediate danger while he had the chance. He could barricade the door to his bedchamber and stitch himself up before deciding his next move.

But the sun was hot that day, and every step the man took jostled the knife and caused the wound to bleed more. He barely made it to the corridor outside of his bedchamber before he collapsed. The sound of his impact with the stone floor caught someone's attention, he was sure of it. He heard a door open and footsteps approaching him quickly.

"What has happened?" Saeed asked. He sounded positively horrified as he helped the mercenary up. "Oh _no_," he gasped when he saw the knife protruding from the man's gut coupled with the blood that thoroughly soaked the man's robes.

"We are not safe here," the mercenary said weakly. "We must get inside and block the door. I—" Pain tore through the whole of his body as Saeed pulled him to his feet. He cried out as the Persian practically dragged him into the bedchamber and dropped him unceremoniously on the bed.

He hadn't expected Saeed to do what he said, and certainly not as fast as he had. He was barking orders to Fautimeh as he pushed a heavy trunk across the floor to block off the door.

"We've got to get you stitched up," he said as he stacked books and a thin chair on top of the trunk. The mercenary wanted to ask Saeed exactly what he thought those small items would really do against the force of his former men when they came, but he couldn't catch his breath for long enough to form a coherent sentence. He merely nodded as Saeed approached him.

"Where do you keep your medical supplies?" The wounded man pointed to a chest of drawers near the balcony.

"Bottom drawer," he breathed, his face drawn up into a horrible grimace of pain. It was only as he heard Fautimah's gasp of terror that he realized he hadn't covered his face after killing the second man; the officers had distracted him.

He moved quickly to cover his face with one of the blankets from his bed, but Saeed tossed the blankets away as he worked to undo his robes and expose the wounds. He fought against the Persian's efforts, but the pain made it hard to focus.

"If you're going to live, you'll have to let me help you. It's not like I haven't seen you in such a state of undress before," Saeed said, rolling his eyes as he forced the man's hands away. He tore the fabric around the wound so he could peel it away without having to remove the knife. He knew he would have to work fast once the knife was out or the mercenary would bleed to death.

"I have to admit, I was certain that living in the palace would make you look less like a dead body, but you're as thin as you were when we found you on the roadside," Saeed commented as he readied his supplies.

"Get on with it," replied the wounded man. His vision was fading to an uncomfortable blackness that he didn't want to further explore.

"Once I've pulled the knife out, I'm going to sterilize the wound with alcohol. I want you to promise you're not going to kill me."

"Just _do it already_." There was an urgency and an animalistic anger to the man's voice that terrified Saeed. He took a deep breath to steady himself and wrapped his hand around the knife handle. With one swift motion, he pulled it out of the man's side. The howl that tore itself from the man's lungs would haunt him for the rest of his days, as would the choked cries that he gave as the alcohol made contact with his flesh.

"You're lucky," Saeed said as he picked up the needle and thread. "It's only a flesh wound."

Tears flowed freely from the deformed man's eyes as Saeed stitched him up. His breath came in short, pained gasps and his entire body trembled. He felt terribly cold, and Saeed noted that the man's skin felt colder than normal.

Once he was finished, Saeed helped the man out of the blood-soaked robes and covered him with blankets. Rather than leave him alone to rest, as was the man's only wish then, Saeed sat beside him.

"You can't fall asleep."

"My body betrays me."

"If you fall asleep, you may well die."

"Perhaps death would not be so bad." The pain was only then beginning to subside, and as he slowly numbed he felt himself drifting off to sleep. Saeed shook his shoulders and the wound throbbed painfully, bringing him back to consciousness if only for a few moments.

"You can't mean that."

"Ever since I was born, I have been treated like livestock. My mother sold me to that freak show when I was very small. I spent my childhood in a cage. I didn't learn how to speak properly until after you delivered me to the Shah so many years ago. No one had bothered to teach the monster." His breathing was labored, but he forced his voice to remain steady as he spoke. He watched the Persian as he recounted the miserable life that he had been cursed with, and he found that he could not identify the emotion he saw in his eyes.

"You are right, the circumstances of your life up until now have not been the best, but even a life filled with trials and pain is not worth giving up without a fight. I've seen how strong you are. To give up now—"

"Spare me your platitudes, Daroga," the deformed man hissed. Saeed stared at him in shock; he'd never used his former title with the man, nor had he heard him speak quite so harshly. He could tell that he was stabilizing, if only a little. "You can't truly believe there's a place out there where I'll be accepted. Where I can do something constructive that doesn't involve killing people for hire."

"You can't truly believe that there isn't such a place," Saeed replied, exasperated. "You've seen so little of the world, so little kindness… You can't judge life based on the terrible people you have been exposed to. And you can't give up on it because of a little pain."

"A _little_ pain?" The mercenary glared up at the Persian. "I'm dying."

"You're not dying," Saeed assured him, patting his shoulder lightly. The mercenary cringed away from his touch. Saeed looked down at him curiously and was surprised to find fear in the man's eyes. He allowed his hand to linger on the man's shoulder a moment before pulling away.

"In all this time, you really haven't given yourself a name?" he asked, trying to calm the man down once more. The fear remained in the man's eyes, but his muscles relaxed at the question.

"What name does one so hideous as me deserve?"

"A strong name. One that will command respect."

"You are delusional, Daroga."

"You may call me Saeed."

"And you may call _me _Mawt."

"I am not calling you 'death'. You need a proper name."

The man sighed and pulled the blanket over his head, wishing desperately for the conversation to end. His head had begun to throb almost as painfully as the wound at his side. The darkness was soothing, even if he could feel himself beginning to suffocate after only a few moments. Saeed pulled the blanket away only moments later, and the deformed man inhaled sharply before hissing a string of curse words at the sudden, blinding pain of his skin stretching at the stitches.

"There must be another name you like," Saeed said. "What about Hassan?" The deformed man's eyes narrowed.

"I will not be called Hassan." Saeed couldn't understand the man's reaction, but he wasn't about to press the matter. "I will be called Wahs."

"You are not a monster and I will not call you as such."

"I am a hired killer. I make money off of death. What more is required to qualify as a monster?"

"Pick a different name," Saeed hissed. They both fell silent for a long, awkward minute.

"You told me not to allow anybody to force a name on me," the man said defiantly, breaking the silence. Saeed looked at him, stunned.

"How do you remember that?"

"It was one of the only kind acts that anyone as ever done for me. You told me then that I was not trash. I was worth enough to choose my own name."

"Well, yes, but you shouldn't choose to call yourself something demeaning."

"What would you propose I call myself, then?" the man asked, before quickly adding, "aside from Hassan?" Saeed thought for a moment before taking a deep breath.

"I have one name," he said quietly. "It is the name I was going to give to my son before he died at birth. You are under no obligation to use it, but I believe that Hesham would suit you."

He had no idea what to say. His own mother had been so repulsed by him that she had never been able to give him a name, yet this man who had seen him and seen what he was capable of was willing to give him a name he'd planned to give his own son.

His emotions must have shown through on his face, because Saeed's expression changed. It was almost sad.

"You honestly don't believe that you're worthy of a proper name?" he asked. The deformed man didn't reply. "Well you are wrong, my friend."

The deformed man stared up at Saeed, eyes wide. Nobody had ever called him that, not even Azadeh. He shook his head.

"No," he said, "We're not— I'm not— I _can't_ be—" Saeed pressed his finger to the man's mouth to quiet him.

"You spared my daughter's life and you never looked upon me with fear, even when you believed you were to be sold into slavery."

"I am no one's friend," the deformed man replied, shying away from the Persian's touch. He turned his head away, closing his eyes. He wished that Saeed would just leave him alone. He needed rest if they were to escape that night. He was certain that the Shah knew what had happened by then. Their safe passage out of the palace was impossible to guarantee now.

How he'd convinced the Shah he was dangerous enough to warrant an attempt on his life, he couldn't understand, but now that he'd killed 'innocent' men, he was surely marked for death. With his injuries, he wasn't sure he could fight off an attack, and though Saeed had been involved in the Shah's police years ago, he wasn't sure that this aged man would stand a chance either.

He was torn from his thoughts by the warm, slightly rough touch of Saeed's hand against his cheek. He stiffened, inhaling sharply at the sensation. Saeed pulled his hand away for a split second before pressing his hand to the man's cheek once more and slowly pulling at him until their eyes met once more.

"Hesham," Saeed whispered. The deformed man began to cry once more at the sound of the name. _His_ name. Gently, so incredibly gently that Hesham could not believe it was happening, Saeed pulled him up into a warm, soft hug.

He broke down into a blubbering mess at that moment, and sobbed himself into a stupor.


	9. Chapter 8: Persia, 1868

**AN: my sincerest apologies for this chapter arriving a day late. I am currently on vacation and have not had a single moment to sit and write or upload prior to now. **

**ALSO, please note that the publication date of Forgotten Melodies has changed. I originally had moved it to 5/20 because I would have been traveling the week of its original scheduled date, and now I've got to move it back to that original date because I've simply not got enough time to finish this to my satisfaction (or yours, for that matter) in the time remaining. HAVE NO FEAR, IT WILL BE OUT NEXT MONTH, on its original date of 6/19, which happens to be my best friend's birthday. **

**Anyway, on to the story. Enough from the windbag. **

While Hesham rested, Saeed packed a few essentials for the journey from the young man's plentiful stock of supplies. Hesham's greatest concern was survival, clearly. Though he had a plentiful bounty of coins in his purse, he also had food, clothing, and medical supplies stored carefully in his trunks and drawers.

Fautimeh sat on the balcony in the last rays of the setting sun, drinking in the delicious free time afforded to her now that she was no longer a slave.

Soon it would be time for the three of them to take their leave, and both Saeed and Hesham were acutely aware of how dangerous their journey would be. The same violence the Shah had shown to Hesham just hours before would be turned on all three of them. They were risking their lives to escape that night.

It was their only chance at life. Twice now the door had been tried. On the second attempt, two officers nearly made it inside. It was only because of Saeed's weight in addition to the heavy trunk that lay in front of the door that kept them from entering.

Through the end of the day, Hesham drifted in and out of consciousness until he woke finally and sat bolt upright, his eyes wide and his skin drenched in cold sweat. He couldn't remember the dream that had frightened him, but it had been more terrible than any dream he'd ever had. The very thought of a dream so terrible sent him into a panic.

He rolled and thrashed about as he fought off the invisible demons that still plagued him even after the nightmare had finished. He managed to tangle himself in his blankets and fall off the bed, landing in a sad, thrashing heap and making sounds not unlike a frightened cat.

At first, Saeed had thought him to still be sleeping, but when he crashed to the floor in a crumpled heap of blankets and bone, he rushed over to help.

He could remember the long wagon ride into Persia, when Hesham was but a nameless teenager. He'd fought sleep every night, only succumbing to his exhaustion after multiple days of forcing himself to stay awake. At first, he and the other men riding in the wagon had assumed that the boy was afraid they'd kill him in his sleep, but the terrified noises the boy would make as he slept soon helped Saeed form another theory.

Sure, the boy had been afraid, but not of death. He was afraid of what plagued him from within his own mind. When he woke, he often would look around with wide, frightened eyes as if he'd forgotten where he was. Saeed's heart hurt when he saw that same, terrified expression fixed on the young man's face then.

"Easy, easy," he murmured, kneeling beside where Hesham fought to free himself from the blankets. He reached a tentative hand out toward the boy's shoulder, and was met with a vicious snarl. He jerked his hand back, surprised at the reaction he'd received, but after a moment of thought he understood.

Hesham was, essentially, a feral animal. Trapped and frightened, of course he would lash out at anyone or anything foolish enough to get too close, no matter their intentions. Having never been treated like anything but a monster, he'd never developed any amount of trust for other humans.

"Hesham," Saeed said, trying to keep his voice low and soothing. "I am trying to help you, I need you to stop thrashing." He looked over to where his daughter cowered fearfully in the corner. "Fautimeh, bring me the scarf I laid out by the bags."

The girl hesitated, but hurried across the room to do as she was told. Once the scarf was in her father's hands, she scurried back to her corner and hid once more. Saeed tried once more to put his hand on the young man's shoulder to calm him. He barely managed to pull his hand back before he was bitten.

He then tried holding the scarf out to the young man. "Calm yourself, Hesham. You are safe." _For now_, he thought, but he knew it would be better to keep that to himself. No need to cause the boy further worry. Hesham's thrashing slowed and he fixated on the scarf. It was made of blood red silk with gold embellishments. It was one of his favorites.

"If you will allow me to help you, I will free your arms so you can put this on," Saeed said. Hesham whimpered uncomfortably, but he ceased his thrashing and allowed Saeed to help him. Once his hands were freed, he tore the scarf from Saeed's grasp and tied it over his head. The second that his face was obscured by the scarf, his entire demeanor changed.

He took the blanket closest to his body with him as he climbed to his feet, shielding the Persian's daughter from having to witness his gaunt body a second time. Wordlessly, he crossed the room to the trunk that blocked the door. He pulled out a set of black and red robes that matched his scarf nicely. He pulled it on and fastened it securely with a wide, loose belt, but not before inspecting his stitches.

Though the wound had turned an angry pink against the pale gray/cream of his skin, the stitches did not seem to have been damaged during his meltdown. This calmed him further, as the idea of allowing the older man to touch him again made his skin crawl and his breath catch uncomfortably in his chest.

At the same time, he found himself longing for the warmth of the other man's skin against his own. He was perpetually cold, even in the hot summer sun. The warmth in Saeed's touch made him drowsy. For a wild moment, he found himself fantasizing about falling asleep beside the man, leeching his body heat.

He dismissed the thought as suddenly as it had presented itself, embarrassed to have even considered it. Saeed had proven to not be as harsh as other men he encountered, but none of that gave him any reason to think the man would entertain his desperate yearning to be held.

"The sun's going down," Saeed said after a long silence. "We ought to decide our next course of action."

"I agree," Hesham said quietly.

"Will you be able to—" Saeed couldn't finish his sentence when fixed with a glare filled with that much contempt.

"Just because I am injured does not mean I am incapable of moving stealthily through the palace. I made it from the north tower the corridor out there before the pain came to be too much."

"I meant no disrespect."

Hesham looked the other man up and down, trying to decide if he believed him. It wasn't as though he had any reason _not_ to, other than the general distrust he felt for all humans he had encountered thus far.

"I merely was wondering if you would rather rest one day more—"

"The longer we remain here, the more certain the chance that the Shah will send someone to finish the job. No doubt he knows I did not die from his attempt today. Another concentrated attempt would likely bring me down. We should go now and cover as much ground as possible before sunrise." Hesham's words were spoken with a finality that left the room silent in their wake.

"Now, we will have to remain out of sight as much as possible. After the little stunt he pulled in the north tower, I doubt he's left much of the palace shrouded in shadow tonight."

"There is a service tunnel we may be able to use. My men used it to transfer prisoners from sentencing to the tower. If you haven't been using it, they may not even remember it exists."

"I know of the tunnel," Hesham said with a sigh. "I repurposed it for the Shah's use. It is a torturous maze of mirrors now." Saeed looked confused.

"How? The tunnel was a narrow stretch of pitch black darkness beneath the gardens!"

"I've had a long time to study and put what I've learned to practice. It's only had one collapse since, and it was an easy fix."

"So it's impassable."

"I never said impassable. I merely pointed out that it is not the tunnel you remember it to be. It would not be wise to bring your daughter through the tunnel as it is today."

"We may have no other choice. I hold no doubt in my mind that the Shah is aware of my presence here now. I am a wanted man myself," Saeed said. "If you know a better way…"

Hesham sighed and hoisted one of the bags they'd packed onto his shoulder. He tried not to show the scowl of pain as the bag brushed against his stitches, but he knew Saeed had seen it.

"I can guide you through it," he said, steadying the bag on his shoulder as the other man crossed the room to take it away.

"You shouldn't carry anything heavy," Saeed said. "You are pretty seriously injured." Hesham couldn't help but laugh as he fought against the older man. "What is so funny? You will further injure yourself."

"That's the first time I've heard anyone describe _me_ as 'pretty' anything," Hesham chuckled. At once, Saeed looked positively horrified by his choice of words. His expression only served to make Hesham laugh even more boisterously. The sound echoed through the large room, stopping only when someone knocked forcefully on the door. The three fell deathly silent as they turned their attention to the door, which was still blocked off by a heavy trunk, but what good could that really do against an army?

"Boy, we know you're in there. Come, you have been summoned to appear before the Shah."

Saeed and Hesham looked at each other as if they were trying to communicate a plan with only their eyes. The older man didn't think it was working; it was as if they were speaking two entirely different languages.

"Boy, you will answer now!" The guard— Hesham knew him, he had often been tasked with guarding the north tower before being selected as one of the Shah's personal guards— was growing agitated. Hesham knew he had to act quickly, but as he looked around the room in hopes of coming up with an idea, he began to feel panic clawing at his ribs.

He took a deep breath and said, "I no longer work for the Shah. He made that abundantly clear when he attempted to kill me. I will be taking my leave of this place tonight." Saeed grimaced and let out a groan of frustration.

The guard seemed unsure of how to respond to what he'd been told.

"I'm— I'm not to return without you," he said after a long pause.

"That is not my concern," replied Hesham. "You can deliver my words to the Shah or you can remain out there, waiting for me. I promise you that the second choice is not the correct one."

"The Shah will kill him—" Saeed began to whisper, but Hesham put his hand up to silence him.

"It is _not_ my concern," Hesham said, narrowing his eyes.

The guard— who likely was not alone— remained outside the door for a long time, waiting for Hesham to change his mind. Eventually, they did seem to wander away, though nobody inside the room had any doubts at all that there were still guards in the corridor.

"Why would you announce our plan? We needed to go unnoticed for it to work!" Saeed demanded. Hesham grinned.

There was something terribly frightening about the grin. His mouth seemed to open wider than was natural.

"The Shah is a simple man who believes himself to be smart," Hesham said. "He will expect me to waltz right out the main gate. That is where he'll concentrate his forces."

"And if he finds us we'll die."

"If we remain in this room, we'll die," Hesham said. He was growing annoyed with Saeed's apparent inability to understand even the simplest concept. "We ought go now before he stations more outside my door."

The older man opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it as he was met with an angry glare from the man who was currently layering a mask over the scarf that already covered his face. All that remained visible were the man's two glowing yellow eyes.

Once Saeed had helped Fautimeh ready herself, he slung two bags across his chest and joined Hesham at the door. Fautimeh followed close behind.

"There is an entrance to the maze in the garden, between here and the west tower," Hesham whispered. "Stay close behind me, especially once we enter the maze. We shall have precious little time to waste."

The two men pushed the trunk away from the door, and as it slid away they could hear footsteps and low voices out in the corridor. They froze, waiting and listening.

Hesham took a deep breath before pulling the door open and shouting in the angriest, most intense voice he could muster. "Insolent fools! You would dare to challenge me? I have laid waste to men in greater numbers than you with skill and ease the likes of which you've never seen!"

At least one of the men in the corridor dropped his weapon and fled, leaving Saeed to scramble for it as Hesham drew his knife.

As Saeed straightened up, a knife flew past his head and missed cutting his ear off by less than a hair's width. He felt the metal graze his skin as he watched Hesham fly— there was no way that the boy's feet were touching the floor— at the remaining three guards, who were steadily backing away. Their eyes were wide with fear as the masked man came down on them, slashing two of their throats and catching the third with his catgut noose. When the third man stumbled and lost his balance, all it took was one final jerk of the catgut to break his neck.

As Hesham knelt to collect his punjab lasso from the dead man, a thunder of heavy footfalls caught all of their attention from the other end of the corridor.

One glance up told all Hesham needed to know. "Quickly," he hissed as he took off in the direction that the frightened guards had gone while attempting to escape. Saeed took Fautimeh's arm roughly in his hand and practically dragged her along, even though she was already moving quite quickly on her own.

As they entered the garden, they found that Hesham's plan had worked. It was nearly deserted, save for a few slaves still working near the south tower.

Hesham found the hidden trapdoor and pulled it open, ushering Saeed and the girl down into the darkness before jumping down himself and drawing the door closed over them, leaving them in the pitch black darkness of the underground maze.

Saeed blinked a few times, trying to will his eyesight to adjust to the darkness, but it was of no use. He couldn't even see his own hand two inches in front of his face. When Hesham placed his hand on the man's shoulder, he jumped and gave a startled cry.

"Keep the child close," Hesham said. "If either of you manages to get lost, you will likely die down here trying to find your way out."

"How will we find our way out in the first place? We have no lantern and it is black as pitch!" Hesham held the length of catgut out to the Persian and waited as he fumbled to grab it.

"Lighting a lantern would only serve to draw them right to us when they come after us," he said quite matter-of-factly. "Follow me."

Saeed blinked at the other man. Well, he _thought_ he blinked at the other man. He couldn't be entirely sure in the dark, even if it was the direction from which the catgut had been thrust at him.

"The blind leading the blind," he muttered. Hesham looked at him, incredulous.

"Hardly," he said, "I built most of this in the dark. I know this maze as well as I know the layout of the palace." Before he could say more, the thunder of approaching footsteps from above interrupted him. "Unless you'd rather your child given to a man who _would_ have a child bride after you've had your throat cut, I suggest we move along. Unless, of course, you'd like to insult me again?" Saeed picked Fautimeh up and tightened his grip on the catgut.

Hesham gave him a few seconds to make sure he was ready before he started down the long outer corridor of the maze. After two left turns and a right, he paused to allow the other two to catch up.

"Why a maze of mirrors?" Saeed asked as they rounded another corner. As they did, a dim light reached them from behind. They all blinked hard, trying to adjust to the sudden light. Dim as it was, it allowed Saeed to see far enough ahead of himself to see Hesham's back.

"We must hurry," the younger man replied as he continued on. "They won't find us, but let's not try our luck." They quickened their pace, and soon they found themselves in complete darkness once more. It was a long walk, and Saeed could see how forcing someone to try to find their way out of such a treacherous maze would prove to be an effective torture method.

"Hesham," he said as they slowed so he could put Fautimeh down. The younger man stiffened at the sound of his new name. It was still so strange to have a _name_. He'd been 'boy' for as long as he could remember. That is, when he wasn't called something worse or simply beckoned with no descriptor beyond an angrily pointed finger.

"What?" he asked after a long moment.

"You never answered my question," Saeed said.

"Which was?" Hesham tried to play it off as bored aloofness. It wasn't working.

"Why mirrors?" Saeed asked again. "If it's meant to be dark down here—"

"So I would have a constant reminder while building this place of why I hold the jobs that I do," he replied.

"I don't—"

"Daroga, you've seen me without my face covered," Hesham snapped. "I am a freak."

"That is not true. You were born different, sure, but that doesn't—"

Hesham stopped then, but Saeed didn't realize until he'd almost knocked him over.

"If you spend enough time looking at yourself in the mirror, you grow accustomed to the image," the younger man sniffed. "I thought I could stop wanting better for myself if I just managed to burn the image of myself into my memory. I thought maybe… Maybe I'd learn my place."

He turned to face Saeed, and he immediately regretted even acknowledging his question. The look on his face was one of greater pity than he'd seen from anyone since the freak show, and he hated it. He almost wanted to strangle this man who was the closest thing he'd ever had to a proper friend.

"Come," he said finally, turning away once more. "We're almost to the end."

"Hesham—"

"No more words," Hesham's words bore a harshness that Saeed had only heard once before. "You'll only draw them to us."

They continued on in silence until they reached the door at the north tower. Hesham exited first, and for a wild moment he considered leaving them down there. The moment passed, however, and he helped them up and out. From there it was only a short distance to the gate, and with the majority of the Shah's men down in the maze searching for them, they were able to walk out without any issue.

It would be a long journey out of Persia, and none of them knew quite where they would go, but somehow it seemed that they all agreed to take that journey together.


	10. Chapter 9: London, 1869

**AN: I am SO SORRY that this update is so damn late. Between a much needed vacation in Las Vegas seeing my favorite, "Weird Al" Yankovic, and the keyboard on my old computer crapping out right when I needed it most, I haven't had the ability to work on this story without having to type on my phone.**

**Thankfully I've got a computer with a working keyboard now and all updates from now through the end of the story should be on time. Might be one or two extra chapters in the coming weeks to make up for all the updates I missed. **

**Anyway this is getting long, but I also want to say that I apologize for any amount of incoherency in this chapter, I'm really not the best judge of my writing right now and I can't even tell if this chapter makes sense anymore. But it's a chapter.**

Hesham couldn't understand why, but upon leaving Persia he'd been struck with an intense urge to return to the city where he was born. It hadn't even been something he'd thought of prior to then, but when Saeed had asked if there was anywhere in particular he might want to go, England had slipped past his lips without any hesitation.

Saeed found himself far more interested in Hesham's response than he'd expected to be, but given the boy's tendency toward angry outbursts at the simplest question, he found it safer to keep his mouth shut. He humored the younger man, and they'd begun a long and strenuous journey across half a continent.

Within the first year after leaving the Shah's palace, countless bounty hunters had attempted to cash in on the hefty reward for the head of the Shah's former executioner, but only one had managed to get close enough to do any damage.

The stump where Hesham's right ring finger had once been served as a constant reminder of how letting his guard down for even a few stolen minutes of sleep could have immeasurable consequences.

They spent that first winter after leaving Persia in Poland, drifting between inns and making camp with what resources they could muster when they couldn't find a friendly innkeeper.

More often than not, they were ejected from whatever inn they'd taken shelter in for the night quite abruptly at daybreak and made to pay far more than others who weren't treated so aggressively, and Hesham began to assume it was because they were aware of what he looked like beneath his mask. It never occurred to him that it was the language they spoke and the color of his traveling companions' skin.

It wasn't until mid-May of 1869 that they finally made it to London, the city where Hesham had been born. He knew it the instant he saw it, but he hadn't been able to remember its name.

Though they had arrived in the city quite late in the day, Hesham insisted on seeking out the flat that had been his mother's so long ago. Though he had only ever seen the building once, he led Saeed and Fautimeh directly to the flat that had once been all he'd known.

The streetlamps had all been lit by the time Saeed could coax the younger man away from the door and down the road. It wasn't until they'd managed to locate and rent a room for the night that Hesham even realized it had been raining all day.

All three of them were soaked straight through, and Saeed was grumbling about having to pay for a meal at the inn because their supplies were soggy.

They laid their things out to dry on every flat surface in their room that wasn't the bed and slowly peeled off their wet clothes, averting their eyes when they found themselves in naught but their skivvies.

Hesham was the last to lose his over-clothes, only dropping his robes once he had squeezed himself into the smallest possible space that blocked the greatest amount of his body from the view of either of his travelling companions. He shivered in his shirt and pants. His scarf and mask remained on his head even though they were as wet as his robes.

"You'll catch your death, you know." Saeed's voice cut through the fog in the younger man's mind. He looked over at him with a pained look in his eyes. "You can feel sorry for your poor, miserable self later, if you leave that mask on another night your face will start to rot. I can smell it starting to already."

"Ever complaining about phantom odors," Hesham sighed with a roll of his eyes. Saeed raised an eyebrow.

"Perhaps your lack of a proper nose allows _you_ reprieve from certain odors," he said as he turned his attention back to the items from his pack. "But that doesn't mean those odors are non-existent."

When Hesham still didn't remove the mask, Saeed sighed and turned to face him, staring intently at him until he had the other man's eyes. Hesham was reluctant to meet his gaze, but eventually relented.

"Have I steered you wrong recently?" Saeed asked, his voice quiet and soothing. It was a voice that Hesham had come to associate with the man trying to offer a bit of fatherly advice. He hated that it actually worked.

If there was one thing that he'd come to hate, it was disappointing Saeed, even if he was a great, embarrassing booby much of the time.

With a tremendous sigh, Hesham relented and removed his mask, revealing the raw, blistered skin of his cheeks and chin. The skin protected by the scarf had faired slightly better, but was still raw and painful. As it made contact with the air, Hesham let out a pained hiss.

"See? How long were you wearing it this time without letting your skin breathe?" Saeed scolded. "You need to—"

"I know how to take care of my accursed face," Hesham snapped.

"You certainly do, and that's why it's rotting off your skull," Saeed replied flatly. "I'll speak with the Innkeeper and see about extending our stay. If you try to cover your face again before that scarf is bone dry, I'll cut your other ring finger off."

"Do you honestly think that threatening me with pain will motivate me?"

Saeed noted with a slight smile that the younger man spread his face coverings out at the head of the bed. They could certainly make do with damp pillows if it meant that the younger man would finally be doing something good for himself willingly.

"I think it might finally be time for us to buy ourselves some new clothing," the Persian said as he inspected one of Fautimeh's dresses. It was worn threadbare at the knees and elbows and three of the fasteners no longer caught properly. Indeed his own wardrobe was beginning to come apart at the seams. It was only Hesham that had somehow managed to keep his robes looking younger than they were.

"So buy yourselves some clothing," Hesham said.

"When I say _us_ I mean all of us," Saeed replied.

"I've got all the clothing I need."

"If we want to find jobs—"

"I do not intend on remaining in this city long enough to have to find steady work, Saeed," the deformed man said flatly.

"Then you have not been paying close enough attention to your purse. We have enough yet for a week's stay at an inn, and that's only if the innkeepers are fair in their prices."

"That's an entire week to spend not worrying about my purse," Hesham said. Saeed groaned and had to bite his tongue not to antagonize the petulant child with which he spoke.

"And when none of us are able to find work once the money's run out? I suppose we'll eat the leather in our shoes?" he asked, exasperated. As he expected, Hesham's gaze grew cold.

"By the end of the week we'll be out of England."

"And where are we going to go with such a tiny sum?"

"Wherever. It doesn't matter. Just not here."

"Well that might work for you, but unfortunately you're not the only person that this affects, Hesham."

"If you are so worried, go and find a job. I am concerned with more important things."

"What's more important than survival?"

"It is none of your concern."

"I respectfully beg to differ."

Hesham gave a strangled, frustrated grunt that caused Fautimeh to give a small, frightened gasp. It wasn't often that she reacted to him unless he personally addressed her, but there was something inhuman about that noise.

"You're not getting out of this so easy," Saeed said. "What's so important that you'll willfully come so close to being a beggar on the street?"

"It is none of your concern!" Hesham growled. "My business will be complete within the next two days and we can take our leave of this dreadful place."

"That's hardly time to take up a job."

"Then cease your complaining about how I regard the contents of _my _purse."

Saeed opened his mouth to say something more, but quickly shut it. He'd seen Hesham react like this only a handful of times before, but he knew there would be no reasoning with him until he calmed down. To continue the conversation would only result in a violent outburst from the younger man.

That night, as Saeed and Fautimeh slept, Hesham pulled on his still-drying robes and slipped his mask and hat on. The damp leather pulled painfully at the raw skin of his cheeks and chin, but he wouldn't leave the inn with his face uncovered.

He slipped out of the room and stole down the hall under the cover of darkness, pausing only at the top of the stairs to glance behind. All was still and silent, save for the light patter of rain on the roof and windows.

The city streets were nearly bare with only the foolish and those who wished not to be seen still dodged puddles as they hurried along to their destinations. Hesham pulled the brim of his hat down as he stepped out into the night.

His shoes hardly touched the street as he made his way back to the flat where he'd been born. He had to know if his mother was still there.

But once he reached the doorstep, he froze. He could knock, but what could he possibly say to the person who answered? There was a decent chance that his mother had long since moved or died.

He took a deep breath and raised an unsteady hand. Three times he knocked, and by the time he was lowering his hand he could hear footsteps from deep inside.

As the footsteps approached, they were accompanied by a sound that made his heart stop.

"I'm comin, hold ya horses," a woman shouted. Her voice was deep and throaty and unmistakable. Through the years he'd never forgotten the sound of her voice.

As the door swung open and he was greeted by the sight of a middle-aged woman in a dingy, ripped dress, he nearly toppled backward into the street.

"Who're you then?" Elissa asked, looking him up and down suspiciously. "You ain't one of my regulars." In broken, heavily accented English, the boy managed to force a few words out in reply.

"No, I'm sure I am not. I know you still."

"I ain't got time for this," the woman exclaimed. "I've got clients popping by all night and I ain't getting paid for answerin' riddles."

As she closed the door, Hesham kicked out his foot, blocking the door from closing all the way. She looked up at him, a touch of fear glistening in her eyes as she _really_ looked at him.

"What kind of man wears a mask like that?" she asked. "You some kind of criminal?"

"That's one word for it," he replied. "It started with my birth."

"What are you going on about? Go on then, if you ain't a client you gotta leave! I'll scream and alert the police!"

"You don't remember your child?" he asked, far more blatantly than he'd intended. He had wanted her to figure it out on her own, but the words had fallen together in his mind and he couldn't go another minute without knowing.

"Child?" The woman gripped her chest and staggered back a step. "How— How do you know of that?"

"You sold me to a man as horrible as my face," Hesham continued, his eyes flashing in the light of the oil lamp just inside Elissa's door. "Do you remember?" He grew more confident as he spoke, finding that he remembered far more of his first language than he had originally thought.

"It— It can't be."

"Perhaps _this_ will help you remember," he hissed as he tore off his hat and mask and forced his way inside. The door slammed shut behind him as Elissa scrambled to get away from him, shrieking in terror as she went.

Hesham tossed his hat beside the lamp but kept his mask in his hand, ready to cover himself again at a moment's notice.

"Come now, you can't think your screaming will do you any good," Hesham said. "I've heard far worse in the time since you left me at that freak show."

"You are a monster!" Elissa spat as she continued to back away, stumbling over various items strewn about the room. The man allowed himself to take in his surroundings and was hit with a wave of emotion unlike any he'd felt in his life. He staggered back a step as crystal clear memories flooded his brain.

It seemed just yesterday he'd played with a ball of string and tattered bit of paper and tried to be as quiet as a mouse while his mother berated him for even existing. She'd seemed so tall back then.

Now it was his turn to loom over the woman and yell. His thoughts were speeding through his mind so fast that he could hardly decide on the first thing he'd say.

When he opened his mouth to speak once more, he let loose a pathetic sob and he fell to his knees.

"I waited for you every day for years. I tried my best to be a good boy so that I could win your favor and come home again. Did you ever even spare me a thought? Did you even consider that your child lived in constant pain?"

"You were no child, you were a demon sent to punish me!" Elissa wailed. "I couldn't bear to keep you in my home!"

"I did my best to please you and you sold me into slavery." There was a pain in his words that brought tears to the woman's eyes. For one brief, beautiful moment, she did not see the twisted, deformed beast that stood just a few short steps away from her but the man that her perfect son should have become.

"I—"

"You didn't even _name me_." Hot tears stung the raw flesh of his cheeks as he continued his tirade. "I've been treated like an animal. Worse than an animal. And it's all because of you." He raised a trembling hand and pointed a long, bony finger at her.

"How do you name a monster?"

His eyes narrowed and his hand steadied almost the instant the words left her mouth.

"I've heard a few ways men name a monster like me," he said. "Assassin. Murderer. Demon. _Death_."

"I'm sorry—"

"Your apology means nothing to me!" he snapped. "You stole what hope I could've had for a normal life from me!"

"I didn't!" she insisted.

"You sold me to Firouz. He took my innocence, he put me on display, he beat me mercilessly. You are the reason for these scars that cover my body." With every word he spoke, the anger within him grew until once more it outweighed his sadness and fear.

"And now you've come to kill me, haven't you?" Elissa asked, her voice faltering.

"The thought crossed my mind," Hesham growled.

"You _are_ a demon from hell sent to torment me for my sins."

"No," Hesham said. "I am no demon. I am no monster. I am but a man."

She didn't seem to hear him, but continued to babble semi-coherently. "Angel of death, sent to… child… not my child…"

The old prostitute collapsed then, sprawling awkwardly across the cold stone floor.

Hesham had seen death countless times before, but this was nothing like before. He stared at her, eyes wide and full of shock, for a long moment before asking, "Mother?"

No response. He slowly inched closer to her and prodded her arm with his finger. She didn't react. His hands were trembling again as he carefully rolled her onto her back.

Her eyes were wide and she stared blankly in whatever direction her head lolled. He pressed his ear to her breast and listened for her heartbeat. He heard nothing but the slow wheeze of air escaping her lungs under the weight of his skull.

"Mother?" he asked again in disbelief. Sure, he'd intended on killing her, he wanted to watch the life leave her eyes for abandoning him, but not like _this._ He'd wanted her to fear him, but he hadn't wanted her to die of fear. He hadn't wanted her to fear a _monster_.

Fresh tears welled in his eyes as he curled up on the floor beside her, daring even to drape one of his arms across her waist as he cried into her arm.

He slept deeper than he had in years, waking only to bright daylight coupled with a horrified exclamation by a familiar voice.

"By Allah, I didn't think you had it in you," Saeed cried. Hesham's eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright, trying to figure out his unfamiliar surroundings. It took the sight of the dead woman beside him to remind him of where he'd gone the night before.

"What? No, Saeed—" he said as he processed what the other man had said.

"We must leave this place. Now," the Persian said, cutting the younger man off. "Fetch your mask."

Hesham stared at him in disbelief for a long moment before feeling around the floor for his mask. Once his face was covered, he stood.

"I only came to talk to her," he insisted. "I didn't touch her."

"I suppose using her corpse as a pillow does not count as touching her?"

"I was mourning!" Hesham insisted as he retrieved his hat. Saeed took him roughly by the arm.

"And I'm supposed to believe all of this? You left in the middle of the night to come and converse?"

Though the sky was overcast, the daylight was still bright enough to hurt Hesham's eyes. The way Saeed was nearly dragging him along was almost welcome as he tried to force his eyes to adjust.

"I will help you leave the city, but I cannot associate with a murderer anymore," Saeed said as he dragged the younger man into an alley. "I can't believe you did this."

"I _didn't_! Saeed, I—"

"You will call me Daroga."


	11. Part 2: The Girl With an Angel's Voice

Chapter Ten

Sweden, 1861

In all the history of the world, there has never been a more beautiful babe born than the girl born on that calm winter's morn. At least, that was Papa Daaé's insistence upon first meeting his daughter, Christine, after nearly two days of his wife's laboring. Never in his life had he seen a baby girl with such a full head of golden blond hair or eyes as clear and blue as the ice that covered the creek outside their humble home.

"She's perfect, darling," he told his wife as he placed the babe upon her chest. "Absolutely beautiful, just like her mother." Mama Daaé blushed and smiled up at her husband.

"Come now, husband. I must look positively horrendous."

"You've never been more beautiful to me than you are right now, dear one." He cupped her cheek with his hand and kissed her forehead.

"Oh, what shall we name her?" Mama Daaé asked. She was smiling more brilliantly than her husband had ever seen before. Anything she desired, he would gladly have given.

"You said you were considering a name last week, what was it?" he asked. "I'm happy to call her by whatever name you find suits her best."

For a moment she was pensive, before smiling up at her husband and saying, "I like the name Christine. After your mother."

"Christine Daaé. It suits her perfectly," Papa Daaé proclaimed as he wrapped his arm around his wife's shoulders.

Little Christine knew nothing but love and warmth for those first precious months of life. As she grew, so did the love her parents had for her.

Every evening, she fell asleep to the strains of an old family lullaby played on her father's violin, and every morning she woke to the soothing voice of her mother.

For a short, blissful time, their family was perfect and happy.


	12. Chapter 11: Sweden, 1863

Little Christine was four weeks shy of her second birthday when her mother fell ill quite suddenly and became bedridden. Though her parents tried very hard not to worry their daughter, knowing that she couldn't begin to understand, the little girl was extremely observant.

From her crib, which sat in the corner of her parents' bedroom, she watched her mother sleep fitfully and wake up weaker with each passing morning.

Usually, her father would wake before too long and Christine would only see her mother struggling to sit up or even breathe for a short time before being whisked off to the kitchen, where she would wait in a highchair for her breakfast. As her mother grew ever weaker, Christine had to wait longer each day for her meal.

Still, she wouldn't cry. She never cried. Her parents marveled in their quiet daughter. Sure, she'd always made her needs quite clear, but she had never been a particularly loud child. No matter how long her father made her wait while he tended to her mother, she wouldn't complain. She wanted to be able to sit with her mother again and listen to the stories she'd tell.

Three days shy of the girl's birthday, Christine's mother went to sleep and never woke up.

Christine knew that something was different, but regarded what she saw through the bars of her crib with nothing more than idle curiosity. Her father was kneeling on the bed, his wife's upper body cradled in his arms. A sound unlike anything the little girl had ever heard tore itself from his lungs.

It was the first time she'd ever seen her father cry. It would be the last time she ever saw her mother.

Wordlessly, her father wrapped the woman's body in a blanket and carried her out of the room.

Christine watched the door for a long time. She heard the front door open and close. For the first time in her life, she was all alone.

It was not something she found she enjoyed. In fact, for the first time in her life, she began to cry quite loudly. Still she found herself alone.

Outside, light snow was falling. From her crib, she could see fat, fluffy flakes of snow falling lazily to the ground. What she couldn't see was her father carefully laying his wife's body in a small pine box.

He'd been expecting this day for weeks now, knowing that there wasn't much chance of his wife recovering from this strange disease that had weakened her so. It was at her behest that he'd built the small pine box.

He would store the box packed in snow and ice until spring, when the ground would soften enough for him to give her a proper burial.

Before he pulled the lid down and nailed the makeshift coffin shut, he knelt at her side for a long time. He thought she looked so peaceful, almost as though she'd simply drifted off for a late morning nap.

"I miss you already, my dear love," he said, gently stroking her forehead. "How will I raise our Christine without you?"

Though he knew she would never answer him, he still waited. Ever hopeful, Papa Daaé was.

With a long sigh, he stood up and fitted the lid to the box, sealing it shut with a handful of nails. He turned and looked back to the house, knowing how empty it would feel without his wife's presence.

It wasn't until he was at the door that he heard the desperate sobs of his daughter. His eyes widened as he threw the door open and ran to the crib.

"Oh, oh Christine, my sweet little girl, I'm so sorry." He scooped the girl up and hugged her tightly, letting her bury her face in his shirt as she cried.

He did his best to soothe her, but that had always been something that her mother had been best at.

"Shh, I'm sorry. Hush now, you're all right. I won't leave you again," he whispered into her hair. He fought back the tears that threatened his eyes knowing that he had to be strong. Christine needed him. He didn't have time to mourn.

"You must be so hungry after such a long morning without you Papa," he said as he carried her out of the bedroom. He quickly shut the door behind them, silently vowing not to step foot back in that room for as long as he could manage.

The main room was warmer in the winter, anyway. They would go into town in a day or two and purchase a few blankets, perhaps notify the local church of the death.

With blankets and the plush rug that covered the worn wooden floor, Papa Daaé would construct a lovely bed. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep without her beside him anyway, though he doubted he would sleep at all for a long time.

Once he could pry her tiny hands away from his shirt, he set her down in her highchair.

"It's just… It's just you and me now, sweetheart," he said as he fixed her some breakfast. Christine had finally quieted, only giving the occasional trembling sigh as she watched her father. She did not intend on ever letting him out of her sight again.

After breakfast, he dressed Christine in her warmest clothes and strapped her to his back with a long woolen scarf that her mother had made. They needed more firewood, but he couldn't bring himself to leave her alone in the house again.

Christine gasped as the cold air hit her cheeks. For a moment, he thought the girl would begin to cry again, but she made no further sounds of distress.

Once he'd brought in more wood than they would probably need for the rest of the week, he finally deemed it enough and stopped. His muscles were screaming at him as he let Christine down.

The first thing she did once free was rip the hat off of her head and throw it across the room. A cascade of blond curls fell from beneath the hat, framing her face and making her look _exactly_ like her mother.

He couldn't hold back the tears that threatened any longer. Papa Daaé sat on the floor beside her and wept openly as she looked on in confusion.


	13. Chapter 12: Sweden, 1866

Christine woke with a start from a nightmare she couldn't remember to find the house cold, dark, and empty. The fire had burned down to a few glowing embers and though she felt around in the darkness for her father's sleeping form, all she found was empty space.

"Papa?" she called, her voice trembling. Silence. "Papa?" Her voice was thin and reedy, nothing at all like what her parents had imagined. Her father feared that she hadn't inherited a singing voice as lovely as her mother's and he hadn't the heart to find out.

She sat up, looking around in the darkness for any sign of her father, but she couldn't see anything.

She could hear the howling of the wind outside and the creaking of the floorboards as she pulled herself to her feet, wrapping herself in a vain attempt to keep warm.

"Papa?" she called as she slowly walked toward the front door. She gave a small shriek as her bare foot came in contact with something cold and crunchy on the floor.

_Snow_, she thought as she shook it off her foot. Her head swam with terrible possibilities as she realized that the floor by the door was covered in snowy footprints.

_What if he's hurt? What if he's leaving like Mama left? What if I'm all alone again? _Her eyes brimmed with tears as she tried to push the thoughts from her mind.

She shivered as she padded over to the window and stood on her tiptoes to peek outside. A few pale snowflakes drifted past the glass pane, glowing dim under the light of the moon. She could see nothing more.

Panic rose in her chest with each breath she drew. She was too little to stoke the fire. That had been drilled into her since she'd been old enough to walk. Without her father there, the fire was sure to go out completely. _How long has he been gone?_

She shivered as she turned away from the window, pulling the blanket more tightly around her little body in a vain effort to warm herself.

_Thump_. Something hit the outside of the house near the door. Christine jumped and looked at the door expectantly. "Papa?"

The door flew open then, giving way to the bitter wind and snow. She gave a small shriek of fright and scurried away into the shadows.

A dark figure entered the house and approached the fireplace. As he passed the makeshift bed, he dropped the load of firewood he'd been carrying.

"Christine?" Papa Daaé's voice had never sounded so wonderful to his daughter. She ran to him, stumbling and nearly falling as her short little legs tangled in the blanket that covered her.

"Papa!" she cried as she wrapped her arms around his waist, determined to never let him go again.

"Oh, sweetheart," he breathed a sigh of relief, "don't frighten me like that again. I thought you'd wandered outside!"

"You left me," she accused him with a sniffle as he wrapped his strong arms around her.

"I'm sorry," he said. "We ran out of firewood and I didn't want us to freeze. You were asleep. I hadn't thought it would take me so long to get back after I knocked over my lantern."

"I woke up and you were gone and— and—and—" Christine began to sob and the rest of her words were lost to the damp fabric of her father's jacket.

For three years he'd kept her close, leaving her alone for only a few moments while she slept or ate. The few times he'd been gone longer than a few minutes, he'd come inside to find her a blubbering angry mess on the floor.

"Christine," he said, trying to pry her away so that he could look her in the eye. He never ceased to be amazed at how strong her tiny arms were. "Christine, look at me."

"No," she replied, shaking her head as she held onto him more tightly.

"Christine, I need you to listen to me," he said as he finally pried her away. Before she could protest, he knelt in front of her and put his hands on her shoulders. "I need you to understand that I'm not going to leave you like Mama left us. Not for a long, long time."

"But Mama—"

"Mama was very, very sick," he said, his voice cracking as he spoke of his wife. There wasn't a day that passed that he didn't visit her grave. Sometimes Christine visited as well, but he found it was far easier on both of them if he went alone.

He'd buried her by the woodshed in the springtime and built a cross out of wood to mark the spot.

"I know I promised I would never, ever leave you," he said. "It's not practical for you to expect that to mean I will _never_ leave you alone. There are always going to be times in life where you will have to be alone."

"But—"

"I'm sorry I frightened you," he said, kissing her forehead.

"Papa—" She wanted to say more, but her father pulled away. She stared at his shape in the darkness as he stood and turned to tend to the dying fire.

"I never should've let it get this bad," he mumbled as he stacked fresh wood in the fireplace. He cursed himself for letting some of the wood fall into the snow. It was wet now and his daughter was shivering uncontrollably and this was _all his fault_.

"I should never have allowed you to become so afraid of being on your own," he said as he worked. A tiny flame had sparked to life for a moment before being snuffed out by a wet spot in the wood.

He looked at the sad pile of music he had gathered and stacked on the mantle. In his youth he'd collected pieces from his favorite composers.

Now they were nothing but kindling. He took a few sheets in his hands and stroked them lovingly before crumpling them mercilessly for the fire.

Within a few minutes and with a few well-placed pieces of kindling, the fire was roaring once more and the house had begun to warm.

"I'm sorry, Papa," Christine said as she curled up in front of the fire.

"Oh, no Christine. You have nothing to feel sorry for."

"I should know you won't leave me," she said, shaking her head. "Not like Mama."

"Not until you're older."

"How much older?" she asked, her eyes widening once more in terror. Her father sighed and kissed her forehead.

"Many, many years."

"Will you tell me before you go?"

He hesitated. That was a promise he wasn't sure that he could make and keep. Death wasn't exactly something he would see coming. His wife was the exception, not the rule.

"I will try," he said.

He waited until she was fast asleep once more to finish bringing the firewood in. It was only midwinter and they were down to only a few armfuls of wood. With the bitter cold that had accompanied January thus far, he knew it wouldn't last them long.

His music no longer drew the crowds it had in his youth once his most recent job had dried up, and nearly all of what he'd been paid for playing his violin went toward feeding himself and Christine.

He sat near the fire, watching his daughter sleep as he thought about how horribly he'd mucked things up for her. He'd been jobless for months now. When her fifth birthday had passed earlier in the month, he'd been unable to give her any gifts or even a special meal.

She'd proclaimed that she was happy with the songs he played for her on his violin, but he still felt like a failure.

His heart ached at the idea of leaving their home. He didn't envision a future where they would be able to return once they took their leave. Who would remember to visit his wife's grave? The house would sit in slow decay, and he was sure what they wouldn't be able to carry with them would be looted in their absence.

_Christine is more important,_ he reminded himself. _You can't support her anymore here. _

He glanced over his shoulder at the bedroom door. It hadn't been opened since the day his wife died. Even if they left as soon as possible, they would need a few days to prepare.

He wondered if he'd be strong enough to break Christine's crib down for firewood. He wondered if he'd be strong enough to go into that room again at all.

At some point in the night he must've fallen asleep, because he woke to find Christine draping her blankets across him and trying to jam a pillow under his head. The fire had begun to die again, but it was also well after daybreak and it didn't need to be as bright for them to see.

"Good morning, Papa," she said with a smile. "Did you like the lullaby I was singing for you?"

"You were singing to me?" he asked as he sat up. His back was screaming at him and his neck was so stiff he could hardly turn his head. He chastised himself for falling asleep in such an awkward position. "What were you singing?"

The little girl shrugged as she stood and picked up her pillow, offering it to her father. "I don't know the name of it, but I think Mama used to sing it to me," she said.

"Would you sing it for me again?" he asked, curious to know what lullaby she could possibly remember from that early in her life.

Without hesitation, she straightened her back and smoothed out her skirt before opening her mouth and beginning to sing a simple tune. Papa Daaé was taken aback by the little girl's voice.

Her singing voice was light and airy, and she stayed in key with what appeared to be quite little effort. With a little practice and another year or two, he felt confident that she would sound like an angel.

"Christine!" he breathed as she finished her song. "Where did you learn to sing that way?"

"I do not know," she said with a shrug. "It's just how I sing."

"Do you like to sing, sweetheart?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "Very much, Papa. I love music!"

His mind swam with possibility at her words. Within months she would be able to perform with him, he was certain of it. And as her voice improved, so would their income. They could find a patron—

—He shook his head, not wanting to get ahead of himself. He slowly pulled himself up to his feet, wincing witch each pop and crackle of his joints as he moved.

"I believe we have something to discuss after breakfast, my dear," he said with a smile. His daughter looked up at him, confused, but didn't say anything. She followed her father to the kitchen and climbed into one of their dining chairs as he prepared their breakfast.

Christine ate the meager meal placed before her as though it was the finest that had ever been placed before her, and her father watched on as she ate. They were nearing the end of their food supply and so he refrained from taking a meal himself. Instead he had eaten a few bites of what he'd prepared for his daughter as he'd cooked.

"Would you like to go on an adventure, Christine?" he asked as she ate the last bite of her toast. Her eyes lit up.

"Like the little princess in my storybook?" she asked.

"Well, not exactly. On our adventure, we wouldn't be coming back here. And it might not always be fun, but we'll be together—"

"Papa, I'd love to!" she exclaimed. Her eyes were sparkling as she danced around the kitchen. "When can we leave?"

"Now, now, we shouldn't get ahead of ourselves. We'll need to pack and plan and I'll need to earn us some money before we can go anywhere."

"Can I bring my pink dress and my doll?" Christine asked, her eyes wide as saucers as her thoughts swam with all the combinations of her things she could possibly bring with her. Her father laughed.

"Of course you can, dear heart. And perhaps you can help earn us some money," he said. Her mouth formed a small 'o' in surprise as she stopped moving and stared at him.

"Really?" she asked.

"You'll have to learn a few songs," he said.

"I can do that!" she said, nodding enthusiastically. "Can we start right now?"

He couldn't say no to her, not when she was so excited about the one thing he loved nearly as much as he loved her: music.

"If that is your wish, dear heart. Let us go and practice. I want to hear more of your voice."

Over the weeks that followed and with her father's help, Christine learned new songs and even performed in front of crowds. At first, her voice was small and timid, but as they continued to perform her confidence grew.

Her father couldn't have been prouder as they brought in enough money to afford passage across the sea to England. Seeing how happy his daughter was to perform with him brought more joy to his heart than he had felt in more than two years.


	14. Chapter 13: London, 1868

**AN: I hate to be /that/ kind of author, but I've really lost my confidence on this story. So I was wondering if one or two of you still reading this could maybe leave a review? Be as honest or not as you want, I'm just really struggling and I feel like this story's just becoming a steaming pile of shit.**

They had set out from their home in the dead of winter and by spring found themselves in a country where they didn't speak the language or know anyone, but as long as they were together they didn't care.

They had enough money to lodge wherever they pleased, though their income was still low enough that Papa Daaé couldn't find even a tiny flat within their means.

So for nearly two full years they had drifted from town to town, staying in each place a few days and playing for the locals before moving on. Christine hardly missed life in Sweden, but not a day passed that her father didn't want to return.

It was in the morning of their seventh day in London that Papa Daaé's violin caught the ear of a particularly well-dressed man who crossed the a busy road just to hear the music more closely.

He was Papa Daaé's opposite in every way. Tall and lanky, the man had orange hair and so many freckles it looked like he'd had a pen explode in his face. Papa Daaé's build more closely resembled that of a bear; the only thing light about him was the icy blue of his eyes.

As the last few notes hung in the air, the man began to applaud.

"That was marvelous!" he exclaimed. Papa Daaé gave him a small nod of thanks as he searched his brain for the next song he'd play. Christine stood nearby, hands folded neatly in front of her as she watched the people pass by.

She'd turned seven years old on the road into the city, and for her birthday her father had bought her the dress she currently wore. It was a deep blue that nearly perfectly matched her eyes, with white piping on the sleeves and collar. She felt like a dignified little lady wearing it, not someone who slept in a lumpy bed at an inn in a less than reputable part of the city.

The man dropped a small pile of coins in the hat at their feet and stepped back to enjoy the music as Papa Daaé began to play once more. This time he played a simple lullaby. It brought the well-dressed man to tears.

"Why are you gracing only the street corner with your talent?" he demanded, causing Papa Daaé's playing to come to a screeching halt. "You play beautifully."

Although he'd picked up some English during their time in the country, Papa Daaé still only understood about half of what was said to him. He looked down at his daughter for translation, which she happily gave. He relayed his reply to her in Swedish and she smiled sweetly at the man.

"Papa says thank you, sir. He has been playing since he was a young boy, but it is hard to find a patron at his age."

"Age should be the last thing any would-be patron should consider!" the man said, shaking his head. "My name is Valerius."

"I am Nils Daaé."

"Might I ask who this lovely little lady is?" Valerius asked, gesturing to Christine. She giggled and smiled shyly up at him.

"My name is Christine," she said. The man knelt down and kissed her hand, which only caused her to blush and giggle more.

"Surely you must be hungry," he said as he stood up and smoothed out his long overcoat. "Would you care to join me for luncheon?"

"Oh Papa, can we?" Christine begged as her father considered the offer. He nodded and she hugged him tightly before crouching down to collect the small pile of coins they'd amassed during their morning of performing.

When she handed the hat full of coins to her father, he shoved it into an inner pocket of his coat. He took her tiny hand in his and they walked along with Valerius. Christine tried to pay attention to what they were saying, but she was too excited about the prospect of a hot lunch.

Nils was especially glad for the other man's patience as he stumbled over words that still felt so foreign on his tongue. He knew a small amount of French from his childhood, but beyond that all he'd ever known had been Swedish.

The restaurant that Valerius chose was unlike anything that Christine had ever seen. Even in her nice new dress she felt incredibly out of place amongst women in sparkling finery. The dresses she saw as they made their way to a seat in the back corner were the stuff of her dreams.

"…I am so sorry for your loss." Christine sighed. She had obviously picked the wrong time to start paying attention to what the grown ups were saying again. They were talking about her mother, she was positive. Valerius was looking at them with greater pity than he had in the street.

She hated that look. She saw it often on the faces of the innkeepers and their wives. Her father sighed.

"I… I have missed her greatly. It was hard to work after her passing. I've been playing for coins since Christine was a baby."

"I daresay you've been selling your talent for far too cheap a price, Mister Daaé," the well-dressed man said. Christine played with her skirt as the man continued to talk. She wanted to pay attention, she really did, but the man's words were so boring.

Occasionally a word would catch her attention and she'd perk up for a sentence or two, but until the food came Christine busied herself with trying to memorize the way that the restaurant looked.

It was decorated entirely in dark wood accented by tall white candles and gas lamps kept near their dimmest setting.

The nearest table to them was occupied by two of the most beautiful women that Christine had ever seen. One of them had long golden locks that were nearly the same shade as her own, the other had short, tight curls that barely reached the middle of her back. Their dresses were both the same shade of emerald green and looked incredibly soft. Christine wished she could go over and touch their dresses, just to know what something that soft felt like, but she didn't dare.

"What do you think, Christine?" The sound of her name pulled her back to reality, and she turned to look at her father and Valerius, who were both looking back at her expectantly.

"Um," she chewed on her lip, unsure of what they were asking her about.

"Professor Valerius has offered to pay for your schooling and to allow us to stay with him and his wife in France."

"What?" Christine's eyes widened as she stared in disbelief up at her father. She'd seen plenty of other children going off to school in their travels, but they'd never been in one place for long enough for her to attend as well. Her father had done his best to teach her what he could, but between the strange hours they kept and the long hours he had to play on the street corner to bring in enough money to pay for their room, that hadn't been very much.

"Would you like that, Christine?" Valerius asked. She nodded enthusiastically.

"Oh yes," she said. "I should love to go to school with the other children."

The men both smiled and Nils hugged his daughter close. For once in her short life, her father felt that she might actually have a chance at the life she deserved.


	15. Chapter 14: Perros-Guirec, 1872

**AN: Thank you very much to those who reviewed last chapter. I can't express how much of a confidence boost it is to even read a single line of "I like it/Can't wait for next chapter". **

Nothing brought greater joy to Nils Daaé's heart than to see his daughter truly enjoying her life. It was summertime and they were in Perros on holiday with Professor and Madame Valerius.

Christine spent those precious summer days outside reading under a tree, or walking along the shore and watching ships come and go. Nils played his violin for the lavish parties that the professor would throw most evenings, and late at night he would tuck Christine into bed and tell her stories his mother had told him when he was a small child.

The stories she liked the most were the ones about angels, especially the angel of music. She would fight sleep for as long as she could to hear the ending to those stories.

"I was visited by the angel of music, you know," her father told her one cool night in July. Christine's eyes widened and her jaw dropped.

"You were?" she asked. "Is that how you can play so well?" He nodded.

"Well, that's part of it. The angel came to me when I was about your age, and left me around the time I met your mother. In that time, I practiced harder than I ever had and I made the most progress I ever had. Soon I was playing for the very wealthy.

"But I had to make a choice. I could either have continued my career as a violinist and traveled all across the world, or I could have married your mother."

"And you chose love!" Christine exclaimed. Her father nodded again. Her hands flew to her mouth. "And that's why the angel left you, isn't it?"

"Not precisely, dear one. The angel left me long before I had decided to marry your mother. I'm sure angels are quite busy and someone else needed the angel's help more than I did."

Although his explanation made sense to her sleepy mind, she couldn't help but worry that the angel had left her father's life because he'd chosen to fall in love.

"Angels show themselves in ways we can't even imagine," Nils continued as Christine yawned and sank deeper into the mattress. "I don't doubt that the angel of music will show himself again. The angel is attracted to talent and discipline, and I know a certain little lady with an abundance of both."

He kissed her forehead and dimmed the oil lamp that sat at her bedside. "Goodnight, Christine."

"Goodnight, Papa," she murmured as he stood and turned to leave the room.

That night would be the first night that she would dream about the angel of music. In her dream, she was a member of the corps du ballet of the Paris Opera House. She loved to dance, but her heart ached to sing. She would sing while she was practicing alone, or when she had nothing else to do.

She woke up as a thunderous voice echoed through her dressing room in the dream, telling her that it was the angel of music.

She sat bolt upright, eyes wide and breathing hard. The voice of the angel of music was still echoing in her mind.

It felt like she'd woken up from a nightmare, but she wasn't frightened. The dream had felt so real. Startlingly real. Her heart was pounding as she looked around the darkened room. It was quite late at night; her father had put out the lamps and she could hear him snoring softly in the bed on the other side of the room.

She slowly lay back down and tried to calm herself. Before too long, she was asleep again and the angel of music was again in her dreams.

When next she woke, sunlight was beaming through the window, filtered through the leaves of the tree that stood just outside. It gave the light a sparkling quality that Christine positively loved.

She dressed herself and readied herself for the day as quickly as possible, not wanting to waste a single minute of the beautiful, mild day that was waiting for her.

At breakfast, her father tied her hair back in a thick braid. "It's terribly breezy out, Christine. I want you to be careful not to get blown away," he told her. She giggled and rolled her eyes.

"Try to be back before lunch, Christine," Madame Valerius said as Christine excused herself from the breakfast table. "We're to have important guests, and they've a child about your age we'll want you to entertain."

"Yes ma'am," she said.

She slipped on the shoes her father had bought her for school earlier in the year and draped a long, light scarf around her neck to help shield her from sunburn. She loved the sun, but it didn't love her back. She'd spent nearly the entire first week of summer nursing horrible sunburn on her cheeks and neck.

As she slipped out the front door, she slid a sketchbook, bottle of ink, and a pen into the pockets at the front of her dress. She intended to sit on the beach and write letters to her friends from school.

The sun was warm on her face as she walked from the Valerius' home to the shore. It was midmorning and the street vendors were still setting up for the day. A few other children, most of them younger than Christine, were running up and down the street.

She went largely unnoticed as she made her way through the city and she found she liked it that way. Though she'd been away to a boarding school for almost five full semesters, she was still struggling to grasp the French language and she found it embarrassing to try and speak to passersby who'd try and compliment her.

At the beach, she found herself a shady spot near some tall rocks and immediately set to making herself comfortable for the morning. She decided that if Madame Valerius wanted her home by lunchtime that she would have to leave no later than when the sun reached its highest point. That gave her plenty of time to write to her friends.

And write she did, sprawled out on her belly in the sand. She set the bottle of ink on the corner of the page to keep it from blowing over in the wind as she wrote. The first letter she penned was basic and boring, detailing only that she had gone on holiday and that she missed her friend dearly.

The second letter was written more casually, detailing a shopping trip she'd taken with Madame Valerius and enthusing at great length about the particular way that a dress she'd picked out would swish when she spun around.

Some of her words weren't right and she knew it, but she also knew that Fautimeh wouldn't mind. She was still learning French as well.

She was halfway through her letter to Fautimeh when the wind shifted and blew her skirt up immodestly. Christine immediately rolled over and sat up to fix her skirt and when she did, the wind began to tug at her scarf. She turned her head in a vain attempt to keep the scarf from flying away as she tried to hold her skirt down, but the wind won its prize and carried the scarf along down the beach.

"My scarf!" she cried. She scrambled to chase after it, but tripped and landed face-first in the sand as her scarf blew out to sea. "Oh no!"

She began to weep as she realized that it was further than she could swim. She wasn't a very strong swimmer, and the scarf had landed quite far out.

"I shall retrieve it for you!"

Christine looked around wildly for the boy who'd spoken the words, but didn't see him until he ran splashing wildly into the water. Behind her somewhere she heard a woman protesting desperately, but she couldn't quite make out the words she was saying.

She watched eagerly as the boy swam out to where her scarf still lingered at the surface. When he grabbed it, he turned around and waved victoriously before swimming back to shore.

As he pulled himself to his feet and stalked back across the sand to where Christine stood, the woman who'd hollered at him when he'd gone into the water approached.

"Raoul, how am I supposed to explain this to your brother? We haven't the time to change!" she demanded of the boy, who proceeded to ignore her in favor of addressing Christine.

"I believe this is yours," he said, offering the sopping wet length of fabric to her. With trembling hands she took it. She stared at it like it was the most important thing that had ever been handed to her for a long moment before looking back up at the boy, who was looking back at her expectantly.

He stood head and shoulders taller than her, with broad muscular shoulders on a lanky teenage frame. His hair was a light brown, though she was sure it was considerably lighter when not plastered to his skull with saltwater. His skin was suntanned, making the light green of his eyes stand out.

"Thank you," she managed to stammer as she gave a low curtsey. The boy smiled and held his hand out for hers. She stared at it for a moment before offering one of her own shaky hands. He took it in his own and pressed his lips to the back of her wrist before straightening up once more.

"When I heard you cry out, I knew I had to help," he said.

"Raoul!" the woman hissed. She was right on top of them now. "We must go!"

He sighed and gave Christine a sad look before turning to go. She stared after him as they disappeared into the crowded streets as her scarf dripped down the front of her skirt.

The boy's face was ingrained in her mind as she stood there staring after him. She had no idea why she was so fixated on him, but she wished that he hadn't rushed off so quickly.

Eventually she packed her things back into her pockets and walked back home, knowing that she'd likely have to change clothes before the guests she was to help entertain arrived. Her scarf was already drying quite well, but there was a strange smell to both it and her dress now and it wasn't entirely pleasant.

When she arrived at home, she found Madame Valerius waiting for her in the sitting room.

"Ah, Christine, good of you to— what happened to your dress? You look positively frightful, child!"

"I'm sorry," Christine said quickly. "The wind blew my scarf out to sea—"

"And you dove in after it, from the state of your dress," Madame Valerius said, looking her up and down. "Go and change, and be quick about it! Our guests shall be arriving any minute now and we can't have them thinking you're a wild child!"s

"Yes ma'am, right away," the girl replied as she turned and hurried out of the room.

The room she shared with her father was empty, as she had expected it to be. Upon entering the house she'd been able to hear the faint strains of his violin as he warmed up for an afternoon of playing.

She wished he was back in the bedroom, however, as she hated trying to decide what was appropriate attire for the Valerius' parties.

She decided on a pale pink dress that brushed the floor and shimmered in the sunlight. There was something about it that made her feel like a princess. Before she left the room, she pulled her hair out of its braid and brushed it, pulling only part of it back so that it'll stay out of her face.

"Christine, quickly child," Madame Valerius called.

"I'll be right there," Christine called back as she inspected herself in the mirror. She hurried back to the sitting room, where Madame Valerius held her hand to her heart and sighed.

"Oh how lovely you look," she said. "Our guests have just arrived. My husband shall bring them in to greet us shortly. Come, sit beside me."

Christine did as she was told, smoothing her dress out as she sat beside the woman on the lounge.

"May I present my wife," Professor Valerius' voice cut through the awkward silence that had fallen between the two ladies. He entered the room followed by two men, one of whom she recognized instantly as the boy who had run into the sea to fetch her scarf. His hair was still wet.

Madame Valerius stood and curtseyed to the older of the two, who took her hand and kissed it. "Philippe, Comte de Chagny," the professor continued. He didn't bother to introduce the boy who stood behind him, hair dripping on the expensive Persian rug.

"A pleasure to meet such a lovely lady as yourself, Madame," he said. He cocked his head as he glanced down at Christine, who quickly stood up. "And who might this lovely young thing be?"

_Thing_? She'd never heard herself referred to as a _thing_ before. The boy who'd gone in after her scarf looked confused by the comte's words as well.

"Ah, yes, this is Christine Daaé, the daughter of our violinist," the professor explained. Christine gave a low curtsey, and before the comte could kiss her hand, the boy stepped forward and did so, much to the surprise of all in the room.

"It seems my brother is as fond of the lovely little mademoiselle as I find myself," the comte said with a low chuckle. The boy blushed a deep crimson as his brother clapped his hand down on his shoulder. "This is my brother, Raoul."

"A pleasure," Raoul said quietly. His eyes met Christine's, and for one intense moment she felt that he could read her soul. She looked away; his gaze was too intense.

The five of them made their way to the dining room, where Nils stood in the corner playing a light, playful melody. He smiled when he saw his daughter enter the room and smiled wider when the vicomte pulled her chair out for her.


	16. Chapter 15: Perros-Guirec, 1873

**AN: SURPRISE! Since we're only a week out from Forgotten Melodies being released in paperback and ebook, I figured why not share an extra chapter? **

It was a cold winter's morn— not unlike the one so long ago that had seen her first breath— that threatened to take her last. Professor Valerius and his wife hadn't returned for Christmas as planned, and Papa Daaé had been let go from his job just before the new year. When their savings had dried up, they found themselves out in the cold, their landlord unwilling to grant them another extension.

It had been a foolish move to remain in Perros through the winter.

Christine woke that particular cold morning to find her father still and silent beside her in their little snow nest in the alley near the market. It was where they had slept for the past four nights; it was where little eleven-year-old Christine had watched her father grow sicker and weaker with each passing day.

"Papa?" she asked, shivering as she nudged him in the ribs. A light shudder ran through the man's body, but he made no further movement to show that he had awoken. "Papa?"

Christine pulled her tattered blue mitten from her left hand, exposing her tiny, pale hand to the frigid air, and pressed it to her father's cheek. Almost immediately she pulled back, as though she'd touched a hot stove. He was positively burning up! She shrieked and leapt to her feet.

"Papa!" she cried. "Papa, please wake up! Papa _please!_" Her tiny, trembling hands shook her father desperately, and while his head lolled back and forth, he made no sign of wakefulness.

The young girl shook him and shook him, but it was to no avail. Beyond quiet groans of protestation there were no signs of life. "Please wake up," she cried as her muscles gave and she collapsed against his chest. Two days had passed since they could afford food, longer since they could afford more than one meal between them in a single day.

Though Papa Daaé had significant reserves of body fat to fall back on, Christine was growing thinner and weaker with each passing day. Without her father playing his violin for the occasional sou from the passersby on the street, she wouldn't last through the winter. As young as she was, she was fully aware of the very real possibility of her death if her father didn't recover.

And it was more terrifying to her than the prospect of living on the street for years to come.

"Help!" she cried, but her voice cracked as a sob worked its way up her throat. "Please, someone! Help me!"

The people of Perros had not yet begun to stir, save for a few merchants on the other side of town. Christine's cries fell on deaf ears as her father drifted further and further from life.

As her shrill, terrified cries echoed between buildings and out into the stillness of the morning, she began to realize that she wasn't going to receive the help she needed. Such was the fundamental problem with the life she had lived with her father in the nearly ten years following her mother's death. Together they had survived on the goodness of others— with a hint of sheer dumb luck at times. In the back of his mind, her father had known it would happen eventually. With Professor Valerius as his patron, however, he'd believed that such a fate was no longer possible.

Christine sobbed into her father's chest, beating her fists against him in a panicked attempt to wake him. "Please, Papa, I cannot do this alone! Come back to me, Papa come back!"

Through her tears and the horrible, choking sobs that tore their way from her chest she didn't hear the sound of footsteps crunching through the snow behind her. Even as long, slender fingers curled around her waist and pulled her gently away from her father's steadily weakening body, the only thing Christine knew was her own sadness and pain. It wasn't until a strange, almost lyrical voice began to speak that she realized she was no longer alone.

"Can you walk, child?" There was no emotion to the question, save perhaps for a hint of annoyance at the girl's continued tears. The man's voice was as smooth as silk and as deep as the night sky. It seemed to fill Christine's head, as though the words were being said within her thoughts.

Blinking back tears and wiping her eyes with her tattered blue scarf, she found herself staring at a tall, impossibly thin figure that loomed over her even as it knelt at her father's side.

"Wh— what?" she asked, sniffling.

"Are you able to walk, or will I have to carry you as well?" Now there was a definite tone of annoyance to his voice. She nodded, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "Come with me and try to keep up. Your father needs a doctor's care."

"You— You'll help my Papa?" Her voice quivered as she realized that this shadowy figure was really standing before her and not simply a figment of her imagination. The man sniffed.

"If it is still a possibility." With that, he threw the man over his shoulder and stood with little effort. Christine watched in shock as the impossibly thin man began to carry her father out of the alley. He was more than seven long strides away from her when she finally willed herself to move and ran after him as fast as her short, numb legs could take her.

The man led her around to the front of Professor Valerius' home, where he threw open the door and ushered her inside. She hesitated at the door, but only for a moment as her body betrayed her mind in favor of the delicious warmth she felt just inside. The man lowered her father to the floor just inside before entering the house. Christine watched, wide-eyed, as the man crouched down just to enter the house.

Outside and from Christine's especially low perspective, he had looked quite tall. With the doorframe for comparison, he looked like a positive giant. Once he'd dragged her father out of the way, he pushed the door closed and crossed the room to stoke a fire that looked positively pitiful.

It wasn't truly that much warmer inside the house, but it was warm enough that Christine could feel the difference. The warmth and the appearance of the strange, shadowy man had all but driven any thought of her father from her mind. It wasn't until he seemed to gasp for breath that she remembered that he was lying there on the cold stone floor.

"Papa!" she shrieked, hurrying to his side. She knelt and cradled his head in her lap, fresh tears welling in her eyes as the man drew a ragged breath.

"Your father is dying," the man said without turning away from the fire he was stoking.

"No! He can't— Papa! Papa stay with me, you promised you'd stay with me!"

"How long were you there in the alleyway?" The man asked. For the first time since entering the house, he glanced over his shoulder at her. His eyes seemed to glow in the dim firelight, and for the first time in a long time, Christine shivered from fear rather than cold. When she opened her mouth to reply to him however, all that came out was a pitiful wail.

"Papa can't die!"

"Screaming about it will not bring him back to life. He is not long for this world. Had someone stumbled upon you days ago, perhaps he'd have a chance, but if you've been back _there_ this entire time—"

"We were waiting for Professor and Mamma Valerius!" she wailed. "They were supposed to come for Christmas and they never did. Professor Valerius was supposed to send money to Papa, he never did. We— We—" She hiccuped and any further words she tried to say were lost in a great, painful sob. The man froze, staring at her over his shoulder. For a long moment, he said nothing but simply listened to the sickly sounds coming from the man and the cries of sadness he knew too well coming from Christine.

"You knew the Professor?" His voice was softer than it had been, and Christine had to listen carefully to hear his words.

"He's the reason we came across the sea to France! He pays Papa for his music!"

It was only then that the man turned around and straightened up. Christine's eyes grew ever wider as she realized precisely how tall he was. The top of his head scraped against the ceiling. In the dim light cast by the fire, she caught the outline of a white mask that covered the top half of his face, leaving only his eyes and mouth visible.

"I regret to be the one to have to inform you, but Professor Valerius fell ill in the autumn. He died before Christmas. Madame Valerius has given this dwelling to me as a fulfillment of her husband's wishes."

"What?" Christine's heart fell. "No, but— they sent us a letter! Papa said they were coming back for Christmas! They sent a letter!"

The man cringed, an intense struggle raging within him. His instinct was to smack the child and demand her silence, but there was something about her that begged him to take pity on her.

He crossed the room, passing within a few inches of the girl and her father on the floor, and began to search through cupboards and drawers in the small kitchen.

"Warm yourself by the fire," he commanded when the sensation of the girl's eyes upon him grew too uncomfortable. "It shall do good to no one if you catch your death with a fire within your reach."

"But my father—" Christine looked down at the man who lay sprawled across the floor, burning with fever.

"He would certainly not wish for you to perish alongside him." There was a strange sense of finality to his words, and Christine didn't open her mouth to protest again. She hugged her father once more before standing and stumbling over to the rug in front of the fireplace.

The man in the mask turned his attention back to the task at hand, but he couldn't help but steal another glance at the girl. When she wasn't screaming and sobbing at him, she looked almost angelic.

He brought the items he'd gathered to the table by the sofa that faced the fireplace before turning his attention to Papa Daaé. The man's wheezing had grown less labored, but that wasn't necessarily a good thing. Moving him would be imperative to his survival in the longterm, but the act of moving him could cause him injury.

Looking down at the defenseless man he felt a flash of white hot anger. How careless this man had been to lie to his child as he had. He couldn't imagine the prideful nature the man had to have in order to justify endangering his life and his young child's on the street in the winter.

"What are you doing?" Christine asked. He froze at the sound of her voice. He had hoped she would be too preoccupied with warming herself to give much thought to what he did.

"I'm preparing to move him closer to the fire."

"So he'll warm up and be all right?" Her lower lip quivered as she broached the question. The man gaped at her, astonished at her complete lack of filter for her ever hopeful thoughts.

He opened his mouth to respond to her, but closed it and opted to say nothing. Instead, he crouched down and grabbed the man under his arms, dragging him across the smooth stone floor until the rug impeded the movement too much.

As he hoisted Papa Daaé up onto the sofa, the Swede gave a soft groan of pain. Christine was at his side before the masked man could finish setting the man upright. "Papa?" she asked hopefully. "Papa, are you awake?"

"Child, he cannot hear you."

"That's not true! Of course he can hear me, I know he can hear me—" One of the man's gloved hands came down and rested on her shoulder, and his face lowered until it was just a breath in front of hers.

"Arguing with me is not going to help your father. I am doing what I can to possibly bring him back to consciousness, but it will be brief _if_ it happens. He is weak, far too weak to fight off whatever it is that has plagued his body. He is not long for this world." The girl stared at him with hatred mixed with fear in her eyes. "I can extend his life, but this will take his life."

"No!" she wailed. The thought of being alone in the world was far too terrifying. Who would care for her? Who would love her? There was no stopping the tears that streamed down her cheeks.

The man turned his full attention to her father, leaving her to cry it out on her own.

It was late in the day when Papa Daaé finally roused. His eyes opened slightly, just enough to make out the blurry image of his daughter leaning over him.

"Papa," she cried. "Papa stay with me."

"Little Lotte," her father whispered, his voice hoarse and halting. He raised his hand to brush one of her golden curls away from her face, but found he was too weak to reach her. "Oh, do not cry."

"Papa—"

"When I am in heaven, I will send an angel to watch over you. When I am in heaven—" Her father lurched forward and coughed violently. The man in the mask held him up as he fought for his breath, and Christine sobbed and pleaded with him not to die.

"Perhaps he should rest now," the masked man suggested. Christine shivered as his eyes flashed in the firelight. Once the coughing fit subsided, he leaned back and closed his eyes, breathing heavily.

"I love you, Christine." The little girl sobbed louder. "I will send the angel of music to you when I at last am in heaven. You shall want for nothing."

With that, the Swede fell limp, his head lolled off to the side, and his breathing ceased. The masked man attempted to revive him to no avail. By sunset, the little girl was an orphan, just like the man who stood nearby and pretended not to see or hear the girl as she wept over her father's body. Once he'd had quite enough of sitting and listening to her wailing, he retired to the back of the house where he would draft a letter to the widow Valerius. Perhaps she would take in the frightened little girl. He knew above all else that, while the girl was welcome in his home in the short term, there would be no long term housing offered.

The life of a mercenary was quite busy, after all.


	17. Part 3: The Little Vicomte

**AN: Only two more updates before the book will be available for purchase! How exciting! I am sincerely thankful for my readers. Writing this story has made me doubt my writing abilities more than I ever have in the past, but rereading and editing for the official release I am growing more confident in my work. **

**(And yes, after the official release I will continue to update it here until it is up in its entirety)**

**On to part three!**

Chapter 16

Chagny, 1859

It was a warm, sunny afternoon when a baby boy was born to the Comte and Comtesse de Chagny, and they were overjoyed. But their joy wouldn't last long. After the baby, little Raoul, had taken his leave from her body, the Comtesse de Chagny developed a bleed that the midwife could not slow or stop. She was dead before nightfall, having only held her newborn once.

The Comte wanted nothing to do with the babe from that point on, leaving him in the care of the wet nurse and the baby's two older sisters. He busied himself with making preparations for his eldest son, Philippe, to return from the Navy and study at a college in Paris.

The boy, far more delicate than any baby the de Chagny sisters had ever been in contact with, quickly became their greatest source of joy. There did not pass a day when little Raoul wasn't doted upon by his sisters, who dressed him in finery and curled his hair, making certain that the little boy was given plenty of hugs and kisses as well.

It wasn't until October that Philippe returned home, and it was only then that he learned of the sad fate of his mother _or_ of the existence of his brother. Immediately he made for the nursery, where he stood at his sleeping brother's side and stared at him for a long, long time.

Nobody expected the young man to like the baby, let alone show any semblance of love toward him. But from the first moment he saw the babe with his sandy blond hair and icy blue eyes, Philippe was in love. He vowed to never allow his brother to want for anything that he could provide. Seeing how his father blatantly ignored Raoul, he decided that he would take over as the boy's father.

The Comte was not pleased when Philippe decided his time would be better spent at home, helping to raise his brother and learning the family business, but as the boy was entering his third decade on earth he decided it was not his place to try and force him to attend college. This respect for his eldest son as his own adult did not mean that he would refrain from trying to change his mind.

"How can you willingly hold yourself back for the sake of a baby? He is not your son, not your responsibility. You need an education," said the Comte as he and his elder children took their supper one blustery November evening. Philippe rolled his eyes and continued to butter a slice of bread.

"We've been over this, father," he replied, his green eyes sparkling in the candlelight as he looked over at the old man. "I've no interest in wasting my time learning things that won't further my life or Raoul's."

"Why factor Raoul into any of your decisions? Your brother is not your burden to bear."

"No, you're absolutely right about that, father," Philippe replied quietly. The Comte raised an eyebrow and sipped his wine, but said nothing to prompt any further response.

"He's really becoming quite a lovely boy," one of Philippe's sisters chimed in. "He's really taken to smiling and laughing at us when we make funny faces at him."

"Yes," agreed his other sister. "So expressive. He'll be such a charmer when he grows up."

"Philippe, my son, why not favor us with a tale from your travels on the high seas?" the Comte asked with a great sigh. Philippe gave him a curious look. What tales there were to tell had been told weeks ago when he'd returned.

"I've told all there is to tell, father," he said after a long pause. "Why are you so adverse to the idea of speaking kindly of your other son?"

"I've nothing to say of the baby," was the Comte's only reply. This only served to anger Philippe.

"You've abandoned your youngest child out of grief. How can you deprive him of both parents so willingly? By all accounts it was not Raoul's fault that mother's life ended so abruptly. I am willing to pretend for my brother, but he should have his _father_, not a substitute."

"I have but one son," the Comte replied.

"Father!" both girls said in unison, positively scandalized by his words.

"How can you say that?" Philippe demanded. "How can you possibly _believe_ that?"

The Comte opened his mouth to reply, but all that came out was a weak choking sound. His eyes widened before rolling back in his head, and he collapsed forward into his plate.

His daughters shrieked as Philippe leapt forward. Alas, the Comte had been dead before his head hit his plate, a blood vessel in his brain burst from stress.

And so it was that Raoul's only parental figures would be his sisters and brother. The baby would never know the difference, would hardly be aware of the absence of the woman who had given her life for him to have his or the man who hadn't been able to see himself as his father.


	18. Chapter 17: Perros-Guirec, 1872

**AN: A touch early, but you'd rather an early update than a late one, right guys?**

**This is it! The last official update before the kindle/paperback release! Who's excited for the release? **

**On Friday I will post an extra special bonus update including all the information you'll need in order to procure your very own copy of Forgotten Melodies! **

**(No, this does not mean updates will stop! I will be uploading the entirety of Forgotten Melodies on the standard Wednesday/Saturday upload schedule)**

_Why should I need a governess? I'm thirteen years old! At my age, Philippe was already running the household!_ Raoul's thoughts were far stormier than the bright, sunny day that found him and his governess walking through the streets of Perros.

"We mustn't stay out too late," his governess said quietly as they turned to head toward the beach. "Your brother said—"

"My brother says a lot of things," Raoul replied with a shrug of his shoulders, "that doesn't mean I have to listen to him."

"Raoul," the woman shook her head and sighed.

"What?" he asked, only half listening to her at this point. He knew where this was going. _Listen to your brother_, he thought, _he just wants what's best for you. It hasn't been easy for him to raise you. He gave up a large part of his life to keep you safe._

"He just wants what's best for you," his governess said, and Raoul tuned her out completely. It was far too early in the day to listen to the same lecture he seemed to get multiple times per day lately.

"I don't understand why he even brought me here in the first place," he said suddenly, cutting her off midsentence. "He's been in meetings and on ships the entire summer so far. I've seen him all of twice. Why couldn't I stay home?"

"He wants to spend time with you. He wants to know you." The woman's words were hollow and Raoul doubted whether she even believed them.

"Does he stare at me while I sleep and read my mind?" he asked, throwing his hands up in frustration. "Do we have long talks while I sleepwalk? Pray tell, Bernadette, how does he expect to know me if he leaves me with _you_ all day?"

He sighed and rolled his eyes when he saw the hurt in hers.

"We really must be getting back. You're not dressed for—" Raoul held his hand up to silence her as they approached the beach. He heard someone cry out as a piece of fabric was picked up by the wind and blown out into the water. "Raoul, no!"

His governess' cry fell on deaf ears as the boy bolted down to the beach, where he found a girl struggling to chase after a scarf.

"I shall retrieve it for you!" Raoul called as he loosened the collar of his shirt. His heart was pounding as he dove into the surf. As he swam out into the sea, he could hear his governess crying out in protestation.

He couldn't help but grin as his fingers grasped the slippery fabric of the girl's scarf. He took it and stuffed it down his shirt as he turned to swim back toward the shore.

The look on the girl's face was one of such joy when he staggered across the sand back to her and held out her scarf that he would gladly have swam out even further to retrieve it for her. He almost wanted the wind to snatch the scarf out of her outstretched hands so he'd have to retrieve it a second time.

"I believe this is yours," he said, flashing her a toothy grin. The girl took it from his hands, staring up at him with wide eyes filled with amazement.

"Thank you," she said as she clutched the scarf close to her chest. He fought back an amused chuckle as she fumbled her way through a low curtsey. He could hear his governess stomping across the sand now; it wouldn't be long before she was right on top of them.

"When I heard you cry out, I knew I had to help," he said. _Is she blushing?_

"Raoul!" Bernadette hissed. "We must go!" He sighed and turned to follow her, unwilling to leave the girl.

"I'd rather stay and swim," he whined as his governess led him through the crowd, fuming unintelligibly and throwing her arms up to accentuate her words. He was not looking forward to the lecture he was going to get from his brother.

"You're soaking wet and now you're going to be late getting ready. Your brother is going to fire me."

"Fire you?" Raoul scoffed. "You've been my governess for six years. He isn't going to want to hire a new one. He'll just yell. He does that all the time."

"You just don't understand, Raoul." His governess wanted to say more, but they were already at the front door of the de Chagny summer home, and with Philippe no where in sight she wanted to get Raoul dried off and changed as quickly as possible. "Go and get changed," she said. "Your brother will return any minute."

"Fine," Raoul said as he stomped up the stairs and down the hall to his room. The door to Philippe's room hung ajar ever so slightly, piquing the boy's interest. But with Bernadette glaring at him from the landing, he didn't dare pause to peek.

He slammed the door behind him, a final act of defiance before Bernadette would sic his brother on him. Out in the hall, he heard Bernadette groan in frustration. _If Philippe would just get it through his head that I'm grown up! I don't need a governess any longer!_

He peeled his wet clothes off and threw them haphazardly across the floor, delighting in the heavy wet _splat_ of water-laden cloth hitting the hardwood floor. He heard an even louder groan of frustration from out in the hallway at that sound.

Once he had a fresh pair of pants on and had slipped his arms into a fresh shirt, he turned to look at himself in the mirror and grinned a huge, toothy grin at his reflection. He fancied himself a fairly attractive, if a bit thin, young man. Not at all like his older brother, whose age weighed heavily on his face.

"Quickly, Raoul," Bernadette called through the door. "Your brother's carriage has just arrived."

"Do you want me dressed or not?" Raoul demanded, annoyed, as he buttoned his shirt up. He exited the room while still fighting to tuck his shirt in and was promptly stopped by Bernadette, who fixed his collar and finished tucking his shirt in for him. He grimaced.

"I don't know why you insist on treating me like a baby," he groaned as she straightened his collar.

"Well, if you'd stop _acting_ like one," she replied simply. "Go on. Your brother's waiting for you." He raised an eyebrow.

"You're not coming?"

"I've been given the afternoon off," she said with a shrug. "I'm going to read a book. Maybe clean the sitting room."

"Well, don't have _too_ much fun. Wouldn't want you to wear yourself out," Raoul said, shaking his head as he hurried down the stairs. He took them two at a time to put extra distance between himself and his governess.

Outside he was shocked to find his brother standing beside the carriage, waiting for him. And was he _smiling_? Raoul was certain he'd seen everything now.

"You're late," Philippe chided as the boy climbed into the carriage. "And your hair's wet. I thought I told Bernadette not to—"

"I went for a swim," Raoul said quickly. "We were passing the beach and there was this girl—"

"There's always some girl," Philippe replied. "I might've known you were reaching that age." Raoul groaned.

"Can we… Can we not talk about this?" he asked as the carriage began to move.

"Oh, but I want details! Who is this little temptress that has captured my brother's heart?"

"Philippe, please." The boy glared at his brother, who bore the cheesiest grin upon his lips.

"Come now, Raoul, surely you can tell me about this lovely little lady you met on the beach—"

"I rescued her scarf from the sea, that is all!" Raoul's shouting shook the carriage and left his brother sitting in stunned silence, staring at him. Raoul folded his arms across his chest and stared out the tiny window at the buildings and people they passed.

"I was merely poking a little fun at you, brother." The words were spoken so quietly that Raoul nearly missed them. He rolled his eyes and shook his head slightly, unwilling to forgive so easily.

"You couldn't have at least tried to dry your hair?" Philippe asked wryly. Raoul glared at him before rolling his eyes and sighing deeply. "Raoul, are you going to be a snit the entire afternoon?"

"I don't know why you insist on bringing me everywhere," Raoul said. His brother cocked his head to the side, confused.

"Would you rather I leave you at home with your governess?"

"I'd rather you leave me in Chagny _without_ a governess," the boy hissed. It was Philippe's turn to sigh heavily and look away, which he did with vigor.

"Raoul, we've been over this," he said. "You're too young."

"Am not. I'm almost fourteen. You didn't have a governess at fourteen."

"You're right, I didn't. Because our parents were still alive and Mother was adamant that she was to be my primary caregiver."

"Neither did Genviève or Anaïs."

"Again I would remind you of the fact that our parents were still alive and—"

"And you're too busy to raise me. I understand. But I'm older now. I'm old enough to take care of myself!"

"Raoul," Philippe sighed and shook his head. The carriage came to a stop just outside of a fairly plain house and Philippe stepped out, unwilling to continue arguing with his younger brother. Raoul stomped after him.

Inside, Raoul actively sought to ignore everything said and done by Philippe and the man who owned the house. He yawned and refused to shake the man's hand or even speak, to which Philippe gave a nervous laugh and shot him an icy glare as he tried to explain away his brother's behavior.

It wasn't until they ventured into the sitting room to meet the women of the house that Raoul snapped out of his little tantrum. The girl! His eyes widened as he stared at her and her golden hair and the pale pink dress that was just a few shades darker than her skin.

"And who might this lovely young thing be?" Philippe's words confused Raoul endlessly. _Thing? Is she a piece of furniture? An artist's masterpiece? Surely she lives and breathes the same as any of us._

"Ah, yes, this is Christine Daaé, the daughter of our violinist," the man he hadn't been paying any attention to said as he gestured to the girl in the pink dress.

_Christine_, Raoul thought. _What a lovely name for a lovely girl._ As Philippe stepped forward to greet the girl, Raoul dodged past him and took her outstretched hand, kissing it delicately. The room fell silent before the men erupted in laughter.

"It seems my brother is as fond of the lovely little mademoiselle as I find myself," the comte said with a low chuckle. The boy blushed a deep crimson as his brother clapped his hand down on his shoulder. "This is my brother, Raoul."

"A pleasure," Raoul said, a pale pink flushing his cheeks as he made eye contact with the girl. He saw something in her eyes, something that made his heart flutter. He couldn't articulate it then, but somehow he knew that she would be an important part of his life.

And so she was! From that day through to the end of the summer, the two were inseparable. They spent every waking moment together, either swimming and running in the sand at the beach with Bernadette watching from a safe distance, or sitting by the fireplace and listening to Nils tell them fairytales and stories he was told as a child.

By the end of the summer, Raoul was positively smitten with Christine. When he learned that Professor Valerius meant to return to Paris for the winter, Raoul was thrilled. He knew Philippe had a woman he was wooing in Paris, it wouldn't be that much of a stretch to ask that they spend at least part of the winter there.

"I'll see you in Paris," he told Christine on the last eve of summer as they sat sprawled on the sand of the beach, watching the sunset. "My brother said we'll be there through the new year." He gave her a small piece of paper with their address on it. "Promise you'll come calling once you've settled in?"

Christine nodded, smiling sadly at the boy she'd grown so attached to over the summer. It had been so nice to have someone her own age to talk to, to confide in, who didn't treat her like a second class citizen for the way she stumbled over words and sometimes spoke in a garbled combination of French, English, and Swedish when she got _too_ excited. Even the few weeks that would separate them now were agony to think about.

They clung to each other on the long walk back to the Valerius' house. Bernadette followed a few paces behind, clearing her throat whenever she deemed the children to be getting _too_ close to one another.

"Inappropriate," she'd cough. Christine didn't understand what was so inappropriate about wanting to hold his hand. Or rest her head against his arm. Raoul rolled his eyes when draping his arm across her shoulders was deemed inappropriate.

They stood just inside the foyer for a long time, stumbling through their goodbyes and trying desperately to put words to feelings they had never needed words for before.

Before he left, Raoul turned and kissed her. As he pulled away, staring at her with wide eyes, he tried to process how soft she was and how sweet she smelled. He wanted to memorize the look of surprise on her face. It was only when Bernadette took him firmly by the arm and led him to the waiting carriage that he finally looked away from her.


	19. Chapter 18: Cherbourg, 1877

**AN: GUESS WHAT EVERYONE! GOOD NEWS! FORGOTTEN MELODIES IS LIVE IN THE KINDLE STORE! You can purchase a copy at the url in my profile. It's $3. There's also a paperback for $13. Thank you for continuing to read this story and look forward to its sequel next year, same time!**

Five years had passed since Raoul had last seen or spoken to Christine, but her face was still etched in his memory. She had never come calling for him in Paris and he had never seen her out in the city, although it was arguably impossible to find a person in a city so large. That hadn't stopped him from trying, however.

How desperately he wished that Christine would return to him, even as he stood in the shadow of the ship that would be his home for the next year.

It was at his brother's behest that he had joined the navy. If he'd had his way, he'd be living in a small flat in Paris and pissing away the family money at the bar.

"It'll be good for you," Philippe insisted. Raoul had long since decided that when Philippe said that he _really _meant, "it'll get you out of my hair for a while."

And so there he stood in a stiff, scratchy uniform that was too tight at the waist and shoulders. Philippe and Anaïs stood with him, waiting for Geneviève to arrive so they could see him off as a family.

"Always figured you'd clean up well, kid," Philippe said, clapping him on the shoulder. "I'm proud of you for doing this."

"It's not like you gave me a choice," Raoul snapped, shrugging away from his brother's touch.

"Sure I did. Join the navy or get a job."

"Now, now," Anaïs said. "Let's not fight. We aren't going to see Raoul for quite some time now and I don't want his last memories of us to be tainted with fighting."

"It's just some good natured ribbing, Ann. All in good fun," Philippe assured her, but she didn't look convinced.

"Raoul!" Geneviève's voice rang out over the din of the crowded pier. "Oh, just look at you!"

The younger de Chagny sister came barreling through the crowd in a flurry of crimson satin and tulle, stopping just short of knocking her little brother over as she threw her arms around him and drew him into a tight, tearful hug.

"I was so afraid I would miss seeing you off!" she exclaimed. "I hadn't anticipated such a crowd!"

"Well, if you'd have left home earlier," Anaïs chided. Geneviève shot her a glare not unlike the face Raoul continued to make at their eldest brother.

"Let's not fight now," Philippe scolded teasingly. Anaïs rolled her eyes and threw her arms around her little brother.

"You best write to us," she said. "I want to hear about all your travels."

"Yes, please do write to us, Raoul," Geneviève insisted. "It will be so strange to have you so far away."

"I will try," Raoul said. "I can't promise anything. I don't even know what I will be _doing_."

"It'll be hard work, but that'll help build character," Philippe said. "Backbreaking work. Soul-crushing work."

"Don't frighten him now," Anaïs said, slapping his arm. "Don't listen to him. Remember all his letters from his time in the navy were about the sun and the sea."

"I wasn't even alive when he was in the navy, Ann," Raoul reminded her. She flushed a light pink.

"I forget what a baby you are," she admitted.

Behind him, Raoul could hear someone calling orders from the ship. He couldn't quite make out the words being said, but he knew it must be nearing time for him to board.

"I suppose I should say goodbye now," he said with a heavy sigh. His sisters hugged him again and Philippe shook his hand before he turned to look up at the ship that waited for him.

"We'll miss you," his sisters said in tearful unison. It wasn't often that he saw or heard them cry, even when they were children together.

With a heavy sigh, he heaved his bag onto his shoulder and began to walk toward the line of young men waiting to walk up the gangplank and board the ship.

He found himself wishing that he would hear Christine's voice calling out to him, begging him to wait, but he doubted that the pretty girl he'd met in Perros even remembered him anymore.


	20. Part 4: The Angel of Music

It was only after being glimpsed one too many times by his neighbors and the whispered gossip had reached his ears that he decided to abandon the home that had been given to him in lieu of the sum he'd been promised for the various works he'd composed for the good Professor. Before leaving, he'd been sure to sell what would fetch a price so as to limit any would-be thief's temptation to break into what he hoped would be his home again in the future. He did so enjoy being near the sea.

Under cover of night, he stole away on a horse stolen from a particularly nosy neighbor. His packs were light; everything he would need was already in place in his new home. It was a home that offered greater privacy than the house in Perros-Guirec ever could. A home of his own design, one he'd manage to sneak under the noses of every single worker at the opera house, even as they helped him build it!

He abandoned the horse at a farm just outside of Rennes and bought a train ticket to Paris. He was uncertain about being trapped in such a small space with other people, but he knew it would take him far longer to reach his destination by horseback and he had no intention of spending upwards of a week riding a horse and sleeping at inns where the innkeepers would treat him like a criminal.

He didn't allow himself to relax until he was safely inside the opera house and out of the watchful eye of the public. How could he when everyone he came in contact with or even passed on the street stared at him as though he'd grown a second head before their very eyes?

It had taken him more than eight months of fairly casual work to construct a livable house on the lake in one of the lower cellars of the opera house. He was quite proud of his work, especially that he'd managed to furnish his little home entirely with items pilfered from the opera.

Unlike the gossip in Perros, which had painted him to be a murderer and possibly a witch, he found the gossip that was passed around the opera house quite amusing. They called him the Opera Ghost, a moniker he found delightfully fitting. He hid in shadows and moved in near-total silence. Nobody had seen him yet, though the stagehands told tales of a tall figure dressed all in black with glowing white eyes.

_Fools_, he thought as he crossed the lake in a tiny boat of his own construction. _My eyes are yellow, not white_.

He found it amusing how easily he could stroll about the opera house. He'd just come from the pantry, where he'd nearly been spotted by one of the kitchen ladies as he'd stolen through the shadows. In a small bag slung over his shoulder, he hid a few pieces of fruit and half of a loaf of bread. The meager supply of food would feed him for more than a week, and that would give him time to figure out his financial situation.

When Saeed left him all those years ago, he'd made certain that the young man had some way of supporting himself. Somehow he'd managed to secure him a job helping construct the new Opera House, which was fast nearing completion. He had laid the beginnings of his home then. It hadn't taken much to convince other workers to do the heavy lifting for him.

His home had six rooms, including two bedrooms and a full bathroom.

In theory, the second bedroom would be for his wife. He laughed at the idea whenever it happened to flit through his thoughts. _What woman would have me? What woman would live in the cellars of an opera house?_ He knew the answer to those questions he never asked aloud. There would be no wife for him, no woman to share his life with.

His home was sparsely decorated but well furnished, even boasting an ornate pipe organ in the center of his study, which was just to the right of the main door. To the left of the door was his library, lined with handcrafted shelves that were bare at the moment but would eventually come to be filled with books on every subject he could possibly wish to study.

Straight ahead from the door was the kitchen, and off the kitchen were the bedrooms. Between the bedrooms and only accessible through either bedroom lay the bathroom. The bathtub was deep enough that he could submerge his entire body to his shoulders, which was no small feat. He was almost certain that he had still not stopped growing. He was nearly eighty-six inches tall at his last measurement, and more than half of that was leg.

He'd taken to making his own clothing out of necessity, and he'd found that he was a natural with a needle and thread. The speed with which he picked up new skills had ceased to surprise him years ago and he'd yet to find something he was unable to learn.

He unlocked the front door and stooped down to enter his home. The doorframe was far lower than necessary for him to walk through without knocking his head off, but he'd done that on purpose. Should a stagehand or one of the managers grow curious enough to investigate, they'd find nothing but a seemingly innocuous locked door.

The doorways and ceiling inside were clearly built for someone of his height, however. He relished in being able to walk about without having to worry about bumping his head on a doorframe or scraping the ceiling with his scalp.

He locked the door once he was inside and deposited his freshly pilfered food in the kitchen before making his way to his study.

After he lit the gas lamps he sat at the organ and uncovered the keys. Their smooth ivory felt cool even against his unnaturally cold skin. He smiled at the sensation as he ran his fingers along the keys.

He removed his mask, placing it lovingly on the bench beside him as he inhaled deeply. The lake kept the air in the cellar just humid enough that he could breathe without pain. It was the first time since leaving London that he could breathe easily without keeping the great gaping hole that served as his nose covered.

He played a few notes on they organ, smiling as the sound echoed through his little home. The sound was warm and calming.

He continued to hit notes in a seemingly random pattern until he formed a melody that actually sounded pleasing to his ears. He played it a few times before feeling confident enough to add to it, and the music flowed effortlessly from that point on.

He played until his fingers trembled and his wrists ached, only stopping when the pain grew to be too great to ignore. As he stood and turned away from the organ, he was overcome with an emotion unlike any he'd ever felt before. He couldn't describe it. It was stronger than any happiness he'd ever felt before and more potent than the suicidal thoughts that had been with him since that night in London.

For once, he truly felt at home.


	21. Chapter 20: Paris, 1877

**AN: Forgotten Melodies is now available on Amazon! Search "Forgotten Melodies Emmaline Westlund" to find both the kindle edition and a paperback edition! Thanks for your support guys!**

In three years, the whispers about the Opera Ghost had grown to fearful gossip told in dressing rooms, in the foyer, even in the cellars with the so-called Opera Ghost within earshot. _Fools_, he thought as he listened to their wide-eyed professions of having encountered a tall, thin specter with glowing eyes and a death's head. He could be a breath away, enshrouded in darkness, and they would have no idea.

The ballet rats were the ones who spread the stories with the greatest vigor. They'd even taken to traveling in pairs throughout the Opera House so as to keep from being caught by the dreaded ghost.

Though money had worried him when he arrived, Hesham found that it had been a needless worry. He had all he needed within his grasp, and as a man who had killed hundreds of people he had no qualms about stealing what he needed.

It was as he raided the pantry one late spring evening that he was properly seen for the first time.

A pair of ballet rats stumbled into the kitchen with a clatter, surprising Hesham and causing him to drop the potatoes he'd been busy shoving into his bag.

"It's him!" One of the girls shrieked. He recognized her immediately as Meg Giry, the dark-haired, dark-eyed daughter of one of the box-keepers. "The Opera Ghost!"

He hissed at them and stole into the shadows once more, his heart pounding as he heard the echo of approaching footsteps beyond the doorway where the girls stood.

"The Opera Ghost? He's real!" the other girl shrieked as she turned to flee.

Hesham stole back through the secret passageway from whence he'd come; a door hidden behind one of the sinks that was hardly big enough for him to crawl through on his hands and knees.

"The Opera Ghost?" He could hear a chorus of girls asking as he closed the panel that hid the tunnel.

He wasted no time in returning to his home in the cellars, allowing himself to rest only once he had crossed the lake.

_Fool!_ _Blasted fool! You allowed yourself to be seen! Now we'll have to leave._ He sank to his knees and covered his face with his hands. _They'll find you. They'll find you and they'll force you out._

He could return to Perros. Perhaps his neighbors had forgotten the skeletal figure that hid his face from the world and spoke to nobody. Perhaps…

_No_, he thought. _Perhaps I can use this to my advantage. Now they've seen me, they have reason to fear me. _He thought of the empty shelves in his library, the empty bedroom opposite his own. He didn't know _how_ it would work, but he was certain that there was a way to use the Opera House's collective fear of the ghost to gain wealth.

_Perhaps this sighting will prove to be a good thing._

He tried not to worry that his home would be discovered and forced himself to continue with life as usual for the next several weeks, but with one small change.

Every so often when he found the need to venture to the surface he would cut loose a sandbag and send a backdrop crashing to the stage below, or throw his voice casually across the foyer before or after a performance.

He didn't do it too often; he didn't want the opera to lose business over its suspected haunting, not yet at least. No, his goal was to show how annoying it could be to have an unruly spirit haunting one's opera house.

Once he knew he had their attention, he would do something to make certain they knew what their ghost was capable of. That was when he would begin making demands.

He knew that people were beginning to notice the absence of the things he took, though nobody had quite decided to blame the Opera Ghost for their disappearance yet.

The managers of the Opera House were all too eager to ignore what they believed to be idle chatter about the ghost. Ghosts, after all, couldn't possibly exist. It was the wind. That was all.

Joseph Buquet, the stage manager, was quick to ask them, "Since when has the wind got a shape?"

When the opera managers looked at one another for answers they didn't have, Buquet asked, "For that matter, since when is the wind strong enough indoors to knock over heavy backdrops? Or accurate enough to put a clean cut through a rope?"

He had a point there. In three weeks he'd found more than six of his ropes had been cut with what must have been an incredibly sharp knife and a steady hand. There was no evidence of sawing, no fraying or evidence of practice swings. Just a clean, straight cut.

Hesham was pleased with himself, quite pleased with himself. That was, until a familiar voice reached his ears as he strolled through the nearly empty Opera House just before dawn one fateful day near the end of summer.

He'd know that voice anywhere, he'd spent years with its owner. All at once his plan nearly came crashing down around him all because of the sound of Saeed's voice.

He froze, heart pounding, hidden just behind a large statue in the foyer. Crouched down, he was just hidden by the smooth marble figure. He listened intently, trying to pinpoint where the voice was coming from. If he could locate Saeed, he could keep away from him. He had no doubts that the man would work to take away all he'd worked for, and he was not interested in having to either return to Perros or find a new home for himself entirely.

How he wished the man would speak up. Mumbling would get neither of them anywhere. He had half a mind to return to his home in the cellars and fetch the Punjab lasso to finish the man off—

—But he knew he couldn't do that. Part of him, a very _large_ part of him, still cared for the man, even if he had been all too eager to accuse him of matricide. He wanted to hate him. It would be easier that way.

He followed the sound of Saeed's voice to just outside of the dormitory for the ballet rats and the girls attending the conservatory. _Is Fautimeh really old enough to begin learning at the conservatory already?_ _How can this be?_

He watched from a safe distance as Saeed bid a tearful goodbye to his daughter, who had blossomed into quite the beautiful young lady in the time since Hesham had been left behind.

He found himself desperately wanting to chase after the man who still looked just how he remembered, though perhaps with just a little more gray hair than before. It took much of his willpower to stop himself doing so. Instead, he watched the man walk briskly out of the Opera House. He kept a watchful eye on the man until he rounded a corner and disappeared into a small crowd of street vendors preparing for their day.

It wasn't until three days later that Hesham began to visit the small dormitory nearly daily to catch a glimpse of the girl who reminded him so much of his past. Without her, he was certain he would still be employed by the Shah, would still be killing criminals with minimal effort, still be rich beyond his current comprehension.

She did not stand out amongst her peers from what he could gather. She was a meek and mild girl who rarely opened her mouth, much less raised her voice enough to properly enunciate the lines she was to practice singing.

The girl that took the bed next to hers, however…

Hesham was certain that he recognized her, but he couldn't quite remember _where _he'd seen her. She was a slight girl with a pale complexion and hair like spun gold. She was lovely, but what drew him to her was her voice.

She could sing like an angel, he could hear the potential in her whenever she sang, but there seemed to be something missing, something quite important, but he couldn't tell what. All he knew for certain was that he wanted to hear her voice the way he knew it could be, not the unimpressive half-hearted way she used it.

If only he could find a way to help her without having to reveal himself to her.

It was shortly after deciding that he was far more interested in the golden-haired girl than in Fautimeh that he decided it was time to draft a letter of his demands to the opera managers. If he wanted to help her reach her potential, _truly_ reach her potential, he would need access to books that he would not be able to pilfer from within the Opera House. He needed time to learn how to be the teacher he knew she needed and he knew she wasn't finding at the conservatory.

He hoped she wouldn't become frustrated and leave before he had the means to help.

In his first letter to the managers, he identified himself as the Opera Ghost and demanded that box five be kept unsold and empty for his use _only_, and that once a month a princely sum of money be left in the back of the costume cupboard in the first cellar beneath the stage for him. If his demands were not met, he warned them that a great disaster would befall the Opera House.

The letter was left at the center of one of the managers' desks, scrawled in a childish script in bright red ink that shone under lamplight even when fully dry. Hesham was delighted to discover how much it resembled blood. It gave his words a sort of gravity that his handwriting would otherwise have robbed them of.

It would only take one additional letter and the complete destruction of three of their most well used backdrops to finally get his way.

By Christmas, he was receiving ten thousand francs per month, and in return for that small fee he was refraining from further destroying the opera.

By the new year, he had amassed a collection of books that would teach him everything he needed to know about music, and he voraciously devoured each one of them.

He became an expert without really thinking about it, absorbing each new piece of information like a sponge. He chuckled darkly to himself as he imagined the kind of work he could find were he not so hideously deformed. Perhaps he could even be a part of the opera. He knew it was nothing but the lonely dream of a desperate man.


	22. Chapter 21: Paris, 1879

_**AN: Forgotten Melodies is now available for purchase through amazon for $2.99. Search Emmaline Westlund Forgotten Melodies to find it! Thank you for reading!**_

It took him more than a year to work up the courage to speak to the girl, and even then he couldn't bring himself to simply _speak_. He took that year to learn as much as he could about the girl. Her name was Christine and she had been orphaned by the time she reached the conservatory.

She was the kindest of the girls he saw in the dormitory, never speaking a harsh word about anybody, even when they had wronged her.

_Perhaps she could even be kind to someone as hideous as me,_ he thought as he watched her from the rafters as she practiced her dancing backstage. By mid-spring that year it seemed she was being groomed to join the corps du ballet, as he had watched her practicing there with the ballet rats for more than a week.

When he finally worked up enough courage to speak to her he was beginning to fear his intervention would come too late.

He wrote her a simple letter and left it on her pillow. In it he asked for her to come to the small chapel that was used to hold Sunday services that would be easily accessible to all those who lived at the Opera House dormitories. He asked her to come at nightfall on a Friday, when he knew the fewest possible people would be around to spoil his plans.

He would speak to her from the shadows, keeping himself hidden and if she got too close he would escape through a hidden trapdoor near the back wall of the small room. He prayed he wouldn't need to escape, that the girl would understand his need to remain hidden, but he knew he couldn't count on that.

On that Friday, he took his place far earlier than she ever would've arrived, trembling nervously as he watched the door from his chosen spot and waited for her to arrive.

It wasn't until the light that filtered in through the small, high windows that lined the wall to the right of the door dimmed to a pale, sickly gray that he heard the light patter of approaching footsteps. He tensed as the footsteps stopped just short of the door and he held his breath as he waited.

The door creaked open and a tiny, pale hand holding a candle came into view. Once the girl had apparently satisfied herself that she wasn't in immediate danger from the darkened room, the door opened all the way and she took a tentative step inside.

"Hello?" she called. _Her accent, where have I heard that accent before? _Hesham knew it sounded familiar, but much like her face, he couldn't figure out _where_. "Is there anyone here?"

"Please sit," Hesham said, trying to keep his voice even and authoritative. It boomed through the tiny space, causing the girl to flinch and her eyes to widen as she searched for the source of the voice. She peered into the darkness, looking in his general direction, but could not see the masked man dressed all in black that was pressed against the back wall.

"Who is that?" she asked. She was reluctant to move from the doorway for fear of becoming trapped in the room.

"Please, sit," Hesham repeated. She hesitated a moment more before complying and taking a seat in the pew closest to the door. She set the candle on the pew across the small aisle and stared into the darkness expectantly.

"You have a wonderful voice," Hesham said. "But you aren't putting forth enough effort for your voice to shine the way I am certain it can."

The girl cocked her head to the side, confused by his words.

"If you would allow me to tutor you when you are not busy with your studies, I believe that you could sing with the voice of an angel."

"When I was a young girl my father taught me to sing," she said, "but monsieur I cannot sing any longer. My tutors and the other girls have all made that quite clear."

"Fools, the lot of them," he said, his voice dripping with more anger than he had intended. It frightened the girl, her eyes widening as she pressed her back firmly against the back of the pew in an effort to put as much space as possible between herself and the source of the disembodied voice. "With my help, your voice could pierce the heavens! Oh, Christine, you must allow me to help you!"

He wasn't certain _how_, but the girl's eyes widened even further and the color drained from her face.

"Who are you?"

"I—" He didn't know how to answer that.

"My father wanted me to sing," she said when the silence grew heavy. "He spoke of an angel that visited him when he was young…"

The girl continued to talk, but he no longer heard her words. He recognized her all at once as the girl he'd found freezing to death with her father in the alley in Perros. She was the girl who had cried into the hem of his suit coat for hours upon the death of her father. She was the girl he had brought back to Paris to live with the widow Valerius.

"The Angel of Music," he said. The girl stared into the darkness so intently that Hesham was positive that she could see him. He felt horribly vulnerable in that moment as she stared at him. Though he reassured himself over and over that she couldn't possibly see him, her eyes seemed to see into his soul.

"You truly have come, I don't believe it," she exclaimed, covering her mouth with her hands. "Angel, my Angel! With your help I am certain my voice will improve!"

His jaw dropped. He hadn't expected it to work. _Foolish girl, she can't truly believe me to be an angel!_

"I thought you wouldn't find me, I thought perhaps you'd decided that, because I didn't want to sing anymore you wouldn't come— Oh Angel, I'm so sorry to have doubted you!"

They met in secret, once or twice per week at the start, and Hesham delighted in teaching her proper technique and even daring to sing along with her at times. She insisted that his voice was beautiful.

"Exactly how I would have imagined an angel would sound," she had exclaimed the first time he'd sung to her. There had been tears in her eyes.

Nobody had ever reacted so positively to anything he'd done. He'd seen plenty of people cry, but only one other time could he remember seeing someone cry from happiness.

After only three months of their secret lessons, it was his turn to cry from happiness. Christine insisted on daily lessons and had improved so greatly that each note that leapt forth from her mouth brought tears to his eyes.

It was the end of summer by the time he could convince her that she was good enough to sing for someone other than him.

"But Angel, how can I sing for a crowd when my voice is only for you? I've tried to sing on my own, honestly I have—"

"You worry for nothing, Christine," he assured her. "You cannot truly believe I would leave you now, when you've only just found your voice."

When she didn't reply, Hesham wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her, but he knew that would cause far more problems than it would solve. "How could I enjoy the voice I helped to shape if I abandoned you now, child?" he asked flatly with just a hint of annoyance.

She flushed a dark crimson and looked at the floor. "I am sorry I doubted you, Angel." She looked back up to where he'd been throwing his voice. "They'll never let me sing anyway. I'm only a dancer."

"A dancer with an angel to help her," he reminded her. "Worry not about how it will happen, but you will sing at the gala the managers are throwing to celebrate their retirement."

Her eyes widened and her hands shot up to cover her mouth. "But that's less than a fortnight away! I'm not ready!"

"I beg to differ," Hesham said. "I believe that it is time for us to conclude our lesson for the evening."

"But we—"

"It will do no good to anyone if you strain your voice before your performance. I will see you tomorrow after rehearsal in La Carlotta's dressing room."

She looked positively scandalized when he revealed the location of their next practice, but she dared not question her angel again. She nodded and gave a low curtsey before snuffing out her candle and exiting the storage room they'd met in.

Hesham stayed there in the dark for a long time, plotting his next move. _La Carlotta_, he thought. The name left a bitter taste in his mouth.

If singing were solely about technique, La Carlotta would've had a voice comparable to Christine's. Her diction and breathing couldn't make up for her lack of heart, however. Her voice was flat, emotionless. Though she could hit every note with little difficulty, the soprano sounded like a rusty hinge to his ears.

She had been the opera's leading soprano every season that he'd been present, and he could swear that her voice had only deteriorated with time. How they still managed to sell out the house with any regularity was beyond his comprehension with such a lackluster leading lady.

That night, upon returning to his home, he wrote one final note to the retiring managers.

Almost as an afterthought, he drafted a note to Carlotta as well. Where his notes to the managers were often lighthearted, the note he wrote to her was nothing short of threatening.

He left the notes in box five, where the box attendant would find and deliver them for him. He left a small stack of coins with them, to ensure their delivery. Though it wasn't often that he made use of the box that the managers set aside for his use, he often had the box attendant deliver his notes for him.

Especially since the managers had begun to lock their office when they left the building for the night.

Once he was satisfied that his plan would be executed properly, he retired to his home once more.

He had just stepped off the boat when a familiar voice echoed through the cellar. He froze as the air seemed to be sucked out of his lungs.

"What kind of game are you playing, Hesham?" Saeed's voice was authoritative and emotionless.

_Just when everything was falling into place, _he thought_. I should've taken you out when I had the chance._

"What— What does it matter to you?" the deformed man asked as he forced himself to continue moving.

"I've seen the notes you've sent the managers, Hesham," the Persian continued. "It's extortion."

"It's none of your concern," Hesham replied with a casual shrug. Saeed stepped out of the shadows and into the pale yellow light cast by the deformed man's lantern. He did not look amused.

"You cannot continue doing this," he said.

"And you're going to stop me?" Hesham laughed darkly. He wasn't convinced.

"If I have to."

"What does it matter to you how I live my life?" Hesham asked with a heavy sigh of frustration. "I'm not harming anyone."

"You're stealing. It's a crime. And what sort of life can you call this? You live in the cellar!"

"It is the life that you chose for me when you refused to believe me!" Hesham hollered. His words echoed through the large open chamber. Saeed didn't seem to have a response. "I haven't killed anybody in years, Saeed. If I wish to charge a fee for my services—"

"Are you going to invite me inside or not? This is not the most comfortable place to have a discussion," Saeed said, cutting him off.

"You would expect me to allow you into my home after all that happened between us?" Hesham asked coldly. "You will leave now, and you will not speak of anything you know to anyone."

"You have no leverage," Saeed said.

"I've got all the leverage I need," Hesham replied, his eyes glistening evilly. "Your daughter." The Persian sputtered, his eyes bulging out of their sockets.

"You wouldn't dare," he said as the color drained from his face.

"Wouldn't I? You know what I'm capable of, Daroga," he spat the title like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

The Persian must have decided that Hesham wasn't joking, because after a few agonizing moments of staring each other down, he turned and left.

Hesham was uncertain of the route that the man had taken to reach his home, but he knew that if the Persian was able to reach him, others would be too. It was time to begin laying traps. He was far too heavily invested in the little life he'd begun to build for himself here. He wouldn't allow himself to be forced out now.

It would mean leaving Christine behind, or revealing his true nature to her once and for all. He couldn't bear the thought of either option. _Let her continue to think me an angel,_ he thought. _It is far better this way. _

He would need to brave the outside world on his own for the first time in more than a year in order to procure the things necessary to booby trap the tunnels which led to his home. He could not trust his errand boy to keep quiet about what he would be purchasing.


	23. Chapter 22: Paris, 1879

_**AN: AND THAT'S ALL, FOLKS! This is the final chapter of Forgotten Melodies! Thank you so much for your readership, everyone. The views, the reviews, the fact that Forgotten Melodies has sold like hotcakes on amazon... I couldn't possibly be happier about how this has turned out. **_

_**The sequel, Something To Sing About, will be published on amazon next June, but I will start posting chapters of it here far sooner than that. Stay tuned! **_

_**I sincerely hope you've enjoyed Forgotten Melodies. Don't forget, you can buy a wonderful (lightly edited) digital or paperback copy of your very own from amazon. Just search "Emmaline Westlund Forgotten Melodies". **_

_**Much love! Enjoy the final chapter!**_

The managers, for only the second time in their history of dealing with the so-called Opera Ghost, ignored his demands.

Perhaps it was because he had gone to the trouble of threatening their tired leading lady, or perhaps they thought that Christine would sing as she had when she'd first arrived. Whatever the case was, Hesham would not have it.

He wrote a series of letters to each manager, addressing them personally and trying to appeal to their sense of self-preservation.

_You will not allow La Carlotta to sing at the gala,_ he wrote. _Christine Daaé will sing on her behalf. If you continue to ignore my demands, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. I am not a patient spectre, monsieur. You would do well to oblige sooner rather than later. Your humble servant, OG_.

It wasn't until three days before the gala, with his little songbird worried that her angel would fail her, that he finally took action. _You could have easily stayed my hand, you fools!_

As they rehearsed on the stage below, he paced on one of the catwalks the sceneshifters used to quickly change backdrops. His mind was already on the devious; he'd spent much of the last week lining the majority of the cellars with booby-traps and alarms.

He had to be quick. He knew he wouldn't have a very wide window of opportunity to do what he planned.

As Carlotta strutted around the stage squawking, he readied himself to cut down a sandbag. It wouldn't be enough of a weight change to disturb the backdrop, but the sandbag would be heavy enough to do some real damage. _That's right, Carlotta,_ he thought with a grin. _Just a few more big steps forward._

He had her precisely where he wanted her. He cut the sandbag loose and watched as it dropped, landing on the soprano's shoulder and knocking her to the floor. There was a chorus of screams from the others present both on and offstage and one of the ballet rats screamed, "It's the Ghost! Look, he's there, the Phantom!"

_Phantom_. He liked that. It was far more fitting than _ghost._ He let out a devilish laugh, throwing his voice so it sounded like it was coming from box five. Everybody looked up to the box as two stagehands ascended the ladder to the catwalk to investigate. By the time they reached it, however, Hesham was gone.

He'd lowered himself to a separate catwalk nearer the back of the stage, where he could see the managers and the cast panicking as Carlotta wailed in pain. He wondered if he'd broken any of her bones. He found he didn't much care.

_They had every opportunity to stay my hand,_ he thought. _They could have acquiesced to my demands. Now they've no choice._

"Oh, this is terrible!" one of the managers, a white-haired man named Poligny, exclaimed. "Three days until the gala and we'll have to cancel!"

His partner, on the other hand, remained fairly cool and collected as he helped the diva to her feet and instructed that she be taken immediately to the hospital.

"We may not have to," he said as he turned to face Poligny. "There is one option."

Both men turned to look at the girl who stood by Meg Giry, chewing her lip nervously as her eyes flitted between the managers and the retreating form of the diva.

"Miss Daaé," Poligny called, and her attention turned to him. He beckoned for her to approach.

"Monsieur?" she asked. She seemed startled that she had a voice, much less that she could speak a single word. The managers exchanged nervous glances.

"We have it on good authority that you are able to sing?"

"I… I have been taking lessons," she said, nodding in agreement with the man's words.

"Lessons? From whom?"

Christine glanced up toward box five, trying to decide what to say. Perhaps it would be best if she kept the angel's involvement secret. She shook her head.

"I do not know monsieur."

"We shall have to cancel," Poligny groaned. His partner gestured to the conductor.

"Do you know Marguerite's part from Faust?" The girl nodded. "Then you shall have no trouble singing from it for us now. Maestro!"

Christine's eyes widened and she shook her head as her cheeks flushed a deep crimson.

"Oh, I can't—" she insisted, but her words were lost to the swell of music. She took two deep breaths to steady herself and calm her nerves before she began to sing.

Her voice trembled and faltered on the first few notes, but with another deep breath and longing glance to box five, she found renewed strength within her. Her voice rang pure and melodic through the theater, causing both managers' jaws to drop as they stared at her in awe. All they had heard of the girl had been that she refused to put forth the effort to truly master her voice. They never imagined someone who immediately transferred to the corps du ballet would have the lungs to sing as beautifully as she did then.

As she held the final note of the aria, applause erupted from the crowd around her. Meg and two other girls flounced over to her with tears in their eyes.

"You have the voice of an angel!" one of the girls said.

"The show will go on!" Poligny said once he found his voice once more. He turned to Christine. "You will sing for La Carlotta. Take care to learn your part."

"Yes, monsieur," Christine said before she was whisked away to a dressing room.

_My very own dressing room_, she thought with no small amount of glee as she surveyed the space once the small entourage of dancers and chorus members left her to her solitude.

The room was sparsely decorated, containing a small sofa, a table, a stool, a large cupboard and a mirror that stretched from the ceiling to the floor. She loved it for its emptiness. She loved it because it was hers.

Her performance brought a tear to Hesham's eye as he watched from above. He'd known she had it in her. It was truly a shame that the managers were retiring. He'd only just broken them in and now he'd have to repeat the process with new ones.

He knew that Christine would be waiting for him once she'd been brought to a dressing room, _her_ dressing room. Just one of the things she deserved.

If he could, Hesham wanted to give her the world. Were it within his power, he would give her anything she desired. All he asked in return was that she sing for him.

He disappeared through a false wall and hurried down a long, dark corridor, stopping just on the other side of the mirror in Christine's new dressing room.

He found himself face to face with the girl. Well, face-to-face with the empty air above her head as she looked at herself in the mirror, but it was the closest he'd ever been to her. Just a thin pane of reflective glass separated the two. Should the need arise, he could reach out and take her by the wrist, leading her away from the surface world and its problems and people.

As he watched her brushing her hair and inspecting herself in the mirror he found himself constructing a life for the two of them in his mind. In his thoughts, she never questioned his mask. She caressed it as though it was his real face. She spoke to him quietly and lovingly, the same way she spoke to her Angel.

As he opened his mouth to announce his presence, there was a knock at the door. She turned away from the mirror to answer, and the squeal of delight that tore itself from her lungs startled Hesham. He tried to see past her, but quickly wished he hadn't.

There, in the doorway, stood a tall, broad-shouldered sailor with sun-kissed skin and a delicate blond moustache to match the wispy blond hair on his head. Christine threw her arms around the man, laughing as he lifted her into the air and spun her around.

Hesham watched as the man led her out of the dressing room and out of his sight, and his heart fell. He hadn't even had the chance to tell her how proud he was before she went off with another man.

_Fool_, he scolded himself. _She will never see you as more than her angel._ It hadn't been until he'd seen her in another man's arms that that particular thought had bothered him. And how it bothered him! He'd spent months grooming her and preparing her, and in comes this sailor with his broad shoulders and face free of deformities to steal her away from him.

As he skulked back to his home in the cellar, he decided once and for all that the girl would be his. She would sing only for him and he would create for her a cage of gold where she would want for nothing. Perhaps, with enough time, he could convince her to love him.


End file.
